INDOMITUS

Gav Thorpe

• DAWN OF FIRE •

Book One: Avenging Son

Guy Haley

Book Two: The Gate of Bones

Andy Clark

• DARK IMPERIUM •

Guy Haley

Book One: Dark Imperium

Book Two: Plague War

Book Three: Godblight

• THE HORUSIAN WARS •

John French

Book One: Resurrection

Book Two: Incarnation

Book Three: Divination

• VAULTS OF TERRA: •

Chris Wraight

Book One: The Carrion Throne

Book Two: The Hollow Mountain

• BLACK LEGION •

Aaron Dembski-Bowden

Book One: The Talon of Horus

Book Two: Black Legion

• EISENHORN •
Dan Abnett

Book One: Xenos

Book Two: Malleus

Book Three: Hereticus

• RAVENOR •

Dan Abnett

Book One: Ravenor

Book Two: Ravenor Returned

Book Three: Ravenor Rogue

• BEQUIN •

Dan Abnett

Book One: Pariah

Book Two: Penitent

• BLACKSTONE FORTRESS •

Darius Hinks

Book One: Blackstone Fortress

Book Two: Ascension

BELISARIUS CAWL: THE GREAT WORK

Guy Haley

NEXUS & OTHER STORIES

A Getting Started collection by various authors

Also available

INFERNO! VOLUME 1

INFERNO! VOLUME 2

INFERNO! VOLUME 3

INFERNO! VOLUME 4

INFERNO! VOLUME 5

by various authors

Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Introduction

Mindshackle

The Book of Change

The Tear of Selevia

Tainted Faith

Knife Flight

Recongregator

The Last Crucible

The Carbis Incident

The Roar of the Void

Outpost

Lepidopterophobia

About the Authors

An Extract from ‘Vaults Of Terra: The Carrion Throne’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

INTRODUCTION

FOR THE ATTENTION OF THE MOST VENERABLE LORD INQUISITOR TORQUEMADA COTEAZ OF THE
ORDO MALLEUS

CLEARANCE LEVEL: VERMILLION

Most revered lord inquisitor,

I trust this communication finds you well in these troubling times, and that it arrives in a reasonably timely fashion, astropathic correspondence being what it is in this blighted age. As per your request, I have scoured our archives in search of pertinent reports regarding the deeds of certain agents of the Emperor’s Inquisition. This was no mean feat, as many of these reports were sheathed behind several levels of security, containing as they do extremely sensitive material regarding the Holy Ordos and their heinous and diverse foes. Many of our scribes, I regret to say, have lost a large portion of their sanity in the attempt to retrieve the requested documents, although this is a small price to pay, I have no doubt. I am hopeful that you are able to find time between your righteous persecutions of the [REDACTED] in the [REDACTED] sector to peruse the reports, so that their suffering will not have been in vain.

Within the attached dossier are eleven such reports, collating information regarding the movements and actions of your fellow inquisitors and their acolytes, gathered from all four corners of the Imperium. All of the most prominent ordos are accounted for, and noted figures such as the puritan Katarinya Greyfax, the radical Otto Dagover, and even an agent of the [REDACTED] Gregor Eisenhorn makes an appearance. Also featured are several lesser-known but no less remarkable inquisitors, and their daring exploits will doubtless be of great interest to my lord.

While I am assured of the veracity of these mission reports and transcripts, I must confess to a degree of scepticism. When reviewing them, I found much that was too fanciful to be truly believed: tales of inquisitors fraternising with aliens; employing the use of sorcery and other foul means. I am conscious of the fact that it borders on heresy to question the word of His mightiest and most faithful servants, but given that the radical nature of many of the individuals concerned also borders on the profane, I hope I will be forgiven for my doubts. I would urge you, my lord, to take the enclosed with a pinch of synthesised seasoning powder.

I trust you will find the reports enlightening, and that my co-operation in this matter will be remembered at such a time as when my position and placement within this great institution is to be reviewed.

It is my honour to remain your obedient servant,

[REDACTED]

MINDSHACKLE

Robert Rath

Inquisitor Greyfax of the Ordo Hereticus needs no introduction, but for completeness’ sake I shall provide one regardless. A confirmed puritan, she is known for her pragmatic and merciless approach to hunting witches, and her expertise has proven invaluable in the dark days since the fall of [REDACTED]. However, many of our colleagues have expressed concern about her centuries-long disappearance before returning out of nowhere to take part in the defence of that doomed world. This long absence has been an enduring mystery – until now. While much of this report strains believability, it answers many questions regarding Greyfax’s whereabouts, and speaks of a feud between her ordo and another…

>>Transcript 1

>>Inquisitorial Tribunal Re: Helynna Valeria

>>File No. [REDACTED]

>>Recording Device: Servo-Skull Mem-Unit # [REDACTED]

>>Date: REDACTED

>>Location: REDACTED

>>Questioners: Interrogator Rapal STACCATA [Ordo Xenos]

>>Tribunal Representatives: [REDACTED]

>>Interview Subject: Inquisitor Katarinya GREYFAX

>>DISSEMINATION OF THIS DOCUMENT WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE EXECUTION<<

STACCATA: We appreciate your cooperation in appearing today, Inquisitor Greyfax. Though we do wish this day had come earlier.

GREYFAX: I was busy.

STACCATA: The tribunal issued multiple summonses. Six, in fact.

GREYFAX: Since the woman in question has been dead for two centuries, I did not consider it pressing. By your tone, it seems I was mistaken.

[Pause: 2 seconds]

GREYFAX: Am I allowed to ask who is behind the null field?

STACCATA: The tribunal is anonymous. Procedure, you understand. I will ask the questions, they will judge your answers.

GREYFAX: I see. It will be three members, one from each ordo – that’s standard, as you say – and since you’re in the service of Lord-Inquisitor Varrigan of the Ordo Xenos, I assume he is one. Lady Cataclis will be representing Malleus, given the Mordians in the hallway; I know she favours them. And for the last, perhaps… Derval Bossch? He hates me, so if he heard there was a chance to get some of my skin under his fingernails, he’d take it.

[Pause: 1 second]

GREYFAX: How did I do?

STACCATA: It is my role to ask the questions.

GREYFAX: It is. And I’ll give them a moment to whisper the next query into your micro-bead. But you can drop the null field. I can see on your face I’m right.

STACCATA: Inquisitor, is it true that you are a psyker, that you have had in-person contact with the perfidious aeldari and the loathsome necrons, that you personally battled the Despoiler and set foot on a daemon world?

GREYFAX: Yes.

STACCATA: Then I think we will keep the null field up, thank you.

GREYFAX: If I am suspected of a breach, level your accusation and be done with it. I was told this was about Valeria.

STACCATA: You are correct. And here is the meat of it: we have never established the ultimate fate of Inquisitor Helynna Valeria. That is, until we received a report from an unnamed source quoting you as follows: ‘Valeria is dead. I pulled the trigger on her myself.’

[Pause: 2 seconds]

STACCATA: Is this report accurate?

GREYFAX: It is.

STACCATA: Under what authority did you execute Inquisitor Valeria?

GREYFAX: My authority as an inquisitor. That is to say, absolute authority.

STACCATA: Such an action requires a formal declaration of Excommunicate Traitoris.

GREYFAX: A declaration I made.

STACCATA: It was not received.

GREYFAX: I cannot be held responsible for breakdowns in astropathic communication. I drew up the proper papers.

STACCATA: Despite her… eccentricities and controversies, Valeria was a well-liked and respected member of my ordo.

GREYFAX: A heretic who consorted with xenos.

STACCATA: Greyfax, I know as a puritan you have a dim view of radicalism of any stripe. But in the Ordo Xenos – without the risk of Chaos corruption – it is far less risky and more permissible to engage with enemies. Not all radicals are created equal, inquisitor. But that aside, without supporting documents stating your case, there is reason to call your actions into question.

GREYFAX: So this is about me, after all.

STACCATA: It is about Valeria, and whether she deserved to be purged. You claim to have declared Valeria Excommunicate Traitoris. Why? Start there.

[Pause: 2 seconds]

STACCATA: Let the record state that the subject refuses to answer, a clear admission of fault and–

GREYFAX: Merely collecting my thoughts, interrogator. I began to pursue Inquisitor Valeria in 816.M41, when I received intelligence that she was connected to a necron overlord known as Trazyn, styled ‘the Infinite’.

STACCATA: My ordo has a file. A large one. You need not elaborate on this creature.

GREYFAX: You did not have a file then. This was in the early days, when we knew little about the necron threat. I came into possession of correspondence between the two, and filed my writ of Excommunicate Traitoris.

[Pause: 1 second]

GREYFAX: Finding her was not difficult. Her feud with Emil Darkhammer over the Dimensional Forge had been loud and public. She was not even bothering to hide. I tracked her to the Eastern Fringe, breveting a company from the 55th Kappic Eagles to serve as a storming party when we took her ship, the Farsailer. Her retinue… made it difficult. She had a kroot mercenary and an ogryn. Illicit weapons that took a heavy toll on the Eagles. In the end, we took her alive.

STACCATA: Why?

GREYFAX: Because I wanted to question her myself.

The 55th Kappic Eagles were good troops. They were survivors. Lethal, loyal and adept at missions where human assets had to be recovered by force. Qualities that made them ideal for Inquisitorial work.

But what Greyfax liked most about them was their resilience. As products of the same schola system that had produced her, they didn’t go all weak-kneed when things got strange – and Greyfax knew that when it came to a renegade like Valeria, things could get very strange indeed.

‘You are relieved, Tempestor Daraq,’ she said, nodding at the fire-team of Eagles standing before the door. They wore their helms, and their shoulder-mounted monoscopes tracked her as she approached. ‘I suggest you retire to the end of the gangway.’

Daraq unsealed his helmet and pulled it free, so she could see his strong-jawed face. He always did that when speaking to her, as a mark of respect. Letting her look into his remaining eye. ‘Are you certain, inquisitor?’

‘I think I can handle an unarmed heretic, don’t you?’ she said, letting a little of her psychic essence slip. She saw Daraq’s dead eye twitch, and his breath smoked as the humid shipboard air went icy.

‘We will be ten paces away,’ he said, donning and resealing his helm. He cocked his head to the four behind him. ‘Keep your weapon packs live.’

Greyfax stood aside to let the bulky warriors past. The steel door they’d guarded had an internal lock, one without keyhole or electronic pad. Nothing to exploit or subvert.

She reached out with her essence, turning the tumblers with her mind, sliding the chunky deadbolt pins back into their housings.

The doors slid open. She stepped in and slammed them shut behind her.

‘Did anyone else make it?’ the prisoner asked.

Helynna Valeria was sitting on the ground, one shackled arm propped on her knee. She didn’t look at Greyfax as she spoke.

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘My retinue. Did anyone escape?’

‘Not the ones who stayed to fight,’ Greyfax said. ‘The kroot abandoned you, as all xenos scum eventually will, when one is foolish enough to trust them.’

Valeria shook her head. ‘Lokh was a mercenary – he agreed to fight for me, not to die for me. We were very clear on that arrangement.’

Valeria looked bad. The left side of her face was a swollen bruise from where the Tempestor’s shock maul had knocked her cold. Her blonde hair, pinned up in a bun, had started to come loose. Her Naval coat and tailored robes were singed from the heat flash of las-bolts dissipating in her aeldari force shield.

She looked every inch the rogue trader that she so often pretended to be – and she looked defeated.

Greyfax knelt so she could meet her rival’s gaze. Fixed Valeria’s faraway stare with her own eyes. ‘Are you ready to confess?’

‘Confess what?’

‘That you are a heretic. A xenos-loving traitor who has turned her back on her own kind.’

‘What kind would that be, exactly?’

Greyfax blinked. ‘Humankind. You have abandoned humanity.’

Valeria laughed. ‘Only one person in this room has abandoned humanity, Katarinya, and it isn’t me.’

‘Play all the word games you like. You kept congress with heathen xenos, used forbidden weapons and sacred archeotech to kill loyal servants of the Imperium–’

‘The grav-pistol did make a mess of your Scions, I’ll admit.’

‘–and have served an alien overlord as his agent.’

Valeria flinched, a movement so small Greyfax would not have caught it had she not been trained in interrogation. A small muscle tic around her right jawline, like a repressed frown.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Valeria. Her slate-grey eyes gave away nothing. Like all inquisitors, she’d had training in resisting interrogation – good training. Even the most cursory nudge from her will told Greyfax that the woman’s mental defences were too strong to breach with telepathy. Not that Greyfax would need to go to such extremes.

Greyfax pulled the data-slate from the pouch at her hip and activated it. ‘“Dear lady,”’ she read. ‘“Let me express my fulsome appreciation for your most generous gift. It is so very rare to discover another of my own kind that appreciates my work…”’

‘You have no idea what you’re reading.’

‘Do I not? Because he speaks of a gift. A gift of five regiments of Catachan Guardsmen who were rerouted from their original deployment on Jeveza and subsequently disappeared from record.’ She opened the document and turned the slate towards the prisoner. ‘Whose Inquisitorial seal, do you suppose, was on that order?’

‘You don’t understand…’

‘You know I really thought you’d be smarter, Helynna. A rosette override, especially on an order of this magnitude, leaves a paper trail.’

‘They weren’t a gift, they were a strike force. I was trying to kill him.’

‘He says they were a gift.’

‘You take the word of a xenos over that of an inquisitor?’

‘A xenos abomination says one thing, a heretic traitor claims another.’ Greyfax shrugged. ‘Quite the dilemma, don’t you think? If only I had an easy solution.’

Greyfax unshipped the hand flamer from her hip. It was an antique model, long-barrelled and ornate, its grip angled backwards with the bulb of a promethium canister counterweight in its butt.

Not a combat weapon. An executioner’s device.

Greyfax snapped the pilot light on, the little tongue of flame illuminating the darkness below her wide-brimmed hat.

Silence. Only the vibration of the ship’s engine, the decking shivering beneath their feet.

‘Do you want to kill me,’ asked Valeria, the little flame reflecting in her eyes, ‘or do you want a confession?’

‘Skipping the preliminaries, I see.’

‘He called it a gift,’ said Valeria, ‘because he’s a collector. That’s what he does. Been doing it for aeons. Probably before we crawled out of the Terran seas. He captures and holds everything. Artefacts, unique species… people.’

‘He’s some kind of menagerie-keeper, like the drukhari?’

‘No.’ Valeria shook her head, drew her knee closer to her chest and wrapped her arms around it. ‘It’s a museum. It covers the whole planet, deep in the subsurface. They’re on display, alive and in stasis, posed like wax figures in elaborate dioramas. I only saw a small fraction when we made our landing.’

‘Why did you land?’

‘Originally, it was a small expedition. His world came to my attention when Hive Fleet Behemoth parted around it like water around a boulder. I shot a probe thinking it might be the atmosphere, the geology, that whatever was there could be used to ward the swarm away from inhabited planets – the probe never came back, but the data did. Tomb world.’

‘Which is when you got the Catachans.’

‘It’s better to strike early. Invade before a world fully awakens. Maybe that was hubris – I still wanted whatever repelled the tyranids, and deluded myself into thinking that if the world awakened, the hive fleet would bear the brunt.’ She shook her head. ‘Don’t make me recall what we found there, at least do me that kindness.’

‘And this overlord?’

‘The warriors hit us immediately. We lost two companies within fifteen minutes of first contact. And then he came.’

‘Trazyn the Infinite.’

‘You know why they call him that?’ A rueful smile crossed Valeria’s mouth. ‘He won’t stay dead. I tried. Realised from his markings that he was the planetary lord. I thought, naïvely, that if we brought him down the others would fall into disarray.’

‘Sinful pride.’

‘Yes. Pride. My grav-pistol crushed his thorax the first time he came. The second I got a lascannon crew to atomise him. The third, he grabbed my wrist.’ She raised her arm to show a straight surgical scar. ‘This is held together by pins now. Anyway, I put an aeldari dagger through his cranium. And he just stepped out of the shadows and came for me again.’

‘You’re lying. You’d never survive that fight.’

‘That’s the thing, he wasn’t fighting. He never tried to strike or injure me. He was… asking questions. My rank, where I’d come from. Observations about my equipment… We killed him eleven times during our evacuation. The Catachans didn’t make it. He just raised a box and… they vanished. Collected.’

‘And he didn’t collect you? Why?’

‘I don’t know. His logic is alien and bizarre. That letter you read, along with a hyperphase labyrinth, was on my ship when we lifted off. He wanted me to get away. Saw me as a colleague, or correspondent, or… It’s not clear to me. I opened the labyrinth, though it cost me an interrogator, and it contained–’ Valeria blinked. ‘Knowledge. Research notes. Theorems from a magos biologis that shouldn’t be alive. Providing the sort of close observation of tyranid biology and swarm behaviour the Ordo Xenos has never been able to replicate in laboratory conditions.’

‘Which you passed to your masters, I’m sure,’ Greyfax sneered. ‘So they’d advance you up the ranks, give you a longer leash.’

‘You think I’m that stupid?’ Valeria managed to look prideful, despite the shackles and filth of her confinement. ‘Not directly, at least. If they knew the source, they’d have buried it. Probably purged me. So I leaked it to the Mechanicus, then “discovered” that they had the information and passed the dossier to the Ordo Xenos. The data helped turn the tide of the Palax Extermination.’

‘Which is why you went back to this being, I assume. Your new patron. Your monster.’

‘He is a monster.’ Valeria dropped her head against the bulkhead. Stared at the ceiling. ‘An ogre out of the old faye stories. Ancient and unfeeling. He has even less of a conscience than you, Katarinya, if you’d believe it. He’ll speak politely to you while his vassals vivisect your closest friend. Yet he’s also petty, childish even. You ask why he called the Catachans a gift? It’s his idea of a joke.’

‘Can a thing so evil have humour?’

‘I called him evil once, and he told me that his culture doesn’t believe in the concept. But the things he knows, Greyfax. The things he possesses. Any one of them in the right hands could save billions of human lives. He’s shown me things, Katarinya, ways his blackstone technology can block the warp.’

‘Heresy. Alien sorcery. To suggest using xenos technology to battle Chaos is like…’

‘Like using witchcraft to battle Chaos? That’s what you do, isn’t it? Tell me how this is different.’

‘I don’t have to justify myself to you.’ Greyfax lowered the flamer, caressed the trigger to nurse the pilot light into a small inferno. She lined the flame up on her colleague’s head, so in her vision it appeared Valeria was already burning. With a push from her mind, she activated the suction fans in the ceiling that would vent the smoke and odour out into space.

‘Helynna Valeria, formerly of the Ordo Xenos, I have declared you Excommunicate Traitoris and condemn you to–’

‘He knows how to close the Eye of Terror.’

Greyfax’s finger paused; she lowered the flamer so she could see Valeria’s face, judge if she lied.

‘Not possible,’ Greyfax said.

‘The Dimensional Forge could’ve done it.’

‘Emil Darkhammer destroyed the Dimensional Forge. On Cavlock. You were there.’

‘The Forge was only one of many devices. Blackstone devices. Trazyn’s kind, they made them. He knows of another device like it, one with a large cache of blackstone to power it. Think of it, Katarinya – a machine that can create a null area light years wide, blocking out warp incursion. The ultimate weapon against the Archenemy. What would you do to possess that? Barter with an alien being? Such a small price.’

‘What does it profit you,’ said Greyfax, ‘to gain the whole galaxy if you lose your soul?’

Valeria laughed. ‘Yes, I remember that one from the schola as well. I always thought they got it backwards. What does it profit me to keep my soul, if in doing so humanity loses the whole galaxy?’

Only the sound of the whirring fans filled the room.

‘Kill me if you wish,’ Valeria said. ‘Just promise me you’ll find the blackstone and use it.’

Greyfax sent a mind-impulse, shut the fans down.

‘Where is it?’ she said.

‘I had a pendant with me. Necron-made. A casket shape, with a horned circle embossed upon it. That is the dowsing rod and the key. It’s on Vladus Secondary.’ She blinked. ‘The amulet, you didn’t destroy it, did you?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Please don’t, even though you’re afraid.’

‘Afraid? Of a necklace?’

‘Of defeating the Archenemy.’

‘I have burned more witches than you could imag–’

‘Yes, I know. And you know why you are so comfortable doing that, Katarinya? Because no matter how many you burn, you’ll never run out. The galaxy will always make more witches, and you and your monstrous gifts will still be needed.’

‘Ridiculous,’ Greyfax sneered.

‘Is it? Because I think deep down, you know that if you ever do manage to burn all the witches – you’ll be the last one on the pyre.’

The amulet lay under the armaglass panel of the isolation casket, the black surface gleaming an iridescent green like a beetle’s shell.

It turned Greyfax’s stomach, that colour. There was an unidentifiable wrongness about it. As if it were not meant for human eyes.

She threaded her arms through the holes in the casket, nestling each finger into the thick rubbarine gloves that allowed her to touch the object without contaminating herself. Clumsy in the lead-lined gauntlets, she picked up the pair of forceps within the box and turned the amulet over.

‘Object is two inches high, one inch wide,’ she reported, hearing the mechanical click-click of the servo-skull’s hammers transcribing behind her. She’d already recited her interrogation report to it – all nine pages. She’d have to change the ink ribbon soon. ‘Chain is silver of Imperial make. Amulet itself…’

She triggered filters in her psyocculum, looked at the sarcophagus shape in infrared, enhanced illumination, thermal. She closed her eyes a moment to still the swimming feeling in her head. Opened them again.

‘An unknown alloy or mineral. Definitely xenos. It’s giving me nothing back, even though I can see light reflecting on the surface. No matter the filter, it’s just dead. Empty, eating up the light like a black hole. Yet there’s no energy expended that I can see, or none that generates heat. Empyric analysis shows…’

The psyocculum’s witchfinder filter switched on.

And when she saw its warp signature, her fingers opened in a shock reflex, releasing both forceps and amulet.

The amulet fell – clack – to the bottom of the casket. It landed heavily, as though it were as dense as platinum.

Greyfax extracted her hands, shaking, from the gloves.

‘It… it has no warp presence. None at all. But it’s not like a pariah – they create a vacuum in the empyrean, a sucking hole in the warp. This… this is just absent.’

Greyfax stepped to the side, rested on the narrow bunk where she slept in the cramped cabin. She suddenly felt tired. Tired and sick. She put her head between her knees to keep herself from vomiting.

‘I am…’ She trailed off, hesitating over whether to confess, even to the servo-skull. These were private notes, an aide-memoire for her own use. But still, the Inquisition was a fractious and unforgiving organisation, one where she had more enemies than friends. Committing vulnerability to paper would be an invitation for rivals to use it against her.

And yet, it was pertinent to the procedure. Documentation was key to any heresy prosecution. Key to protecting yourself, letting the Ordo Hereticus know that procedure had been followed, and contamination avoided.

There was no vulnerability, she decided, in admitting how much she loathed the alien.

‘I… I am uncomfortable with this object. Looking at it, handling it. The uncanny wrongness. The way I can see it, and feel its weight, but know that in some crucial sense it is outside. My life has been spent confronting and defeating the Archenemy. Heresy is odious, but it is an evil against which I am fortified. This… is new to me.’

Greyfax paused, mouth dry. She reached for a canteen of water and swallowed a mouthful, then stopped. Should she have disinfected her hands? The casket was made to contain warp-tainted relics. Would it even keep in whatever malevolent force this exuded?

The pad on her left ring finger itched. Had the amulet brushed it when it fell? Could it have tainted her with something…

Greyfax clamped down on the rising panic. Simply told the emotion it could not have her. This was a psychosomatic reaction, a natural fear of unnatural things.

‘Perhaps this is why we have the ordos,’ she said, dragging her eyes up to look at the casket. She wanted, so badly, to keep them on the grille decking between her boots. ‘So we can each be inured to a different enemy. The whispers of the warp, the powers of the daemon, the promises of the alien…’

She trailed off, then said with force, ‘Order: end transcription.’

The skull’s type-hammers stopped clacking. The spool of parchment now scraped the floor, stirred by the circulation of stale shipboard air.

‘Eject ink ribbon and power down.’

The skull wandered to a corner and sank to the floor, its repulsor cycling down.

‘Order,’ she said. ‘Transcribe. Test, test, test.’

Nothing happened. It was off. You could never be too careful.

Greyfax stood and planted her hands on the sides of the desk, staring directly down at the amulet.

Valeria’s psychic signature had to be extremely low to have worn the thing against her skin. Of course, Greyfax had always sensed that about her. Even during that first meeting at the Council of Gaavel. Valeria had been training under old Gorcius Ravenstahl then, and she stood out. Golden hair and quick eyes, practically biting her lips every time her half-senile master recalled an Inquisitorial statute incorrectly. Quietly closing doors behind him when he forgot to, taking glasses out of his hand and putting them back on the serving tray so he didn’t walk away with them.

She recalled thinking that Valeria was too smart for Ravenstahl. Maybe too kind for the profession. The type that burned bright but wouldn’t last long, if she even lived long enough to get a rosette.

‘But you did, didn’t you?’ she said to the amulet. ‘And you think you’re going to save humanity. Presupposing we can be saved.’

Greyfax’s brow wrinkled. She swallowed her rising gorge and reached out with her will, punched out with it like a jabbing finger directed at the forceps inside the box.

She’d killed men with less force.

The tool didn’t move. Didn’t even rattle.

Greyfax pushed herself off the desk and rushed towards the necessarium cubicle. Threw the evacuator’s seat back and retched.

Proteyn bars and diced laverroot. That was supper. Carb-slices and cold-cut grox. Midday meal. And there was nothing to come up after that but acid and bile, yet she kept retching. The fumes of it stung her eyes; they were rimmed red when she looked in the mirror.

She wiped her mouth, seeing her sallow skin, the rings under her eyes. Sick had got in her hair. On her high collar.

Perhaps it wasn’t the amulet. Perhaps she’d panicked, disliked the thing so much she’d not pushed properly.

She gathered her will. Gave an exploratory stab.

The mirror fractured in a web pattern, so a dozen eyes stared back at her.

Greyfax looked at the box.

Was this blackstone? The thing Valeria said could help withstand the taint of the warp, and close realspace off from the empyrean?

And if a small bit of it could do this, what could a large cache of blackstone accomplish?

‘That’s the heretic’s path,’ she said to the reflection of her broken self. ‘Putting one’s faith in alien trinkets.’

What had Valeria said? That this being Trazyn had not believed in good or evil. But if that were true, what was there to believe in?

‘Nothing,’ she said. Which is what she’d felt when she pushed at the blackstone. Nothing. Not as a concept, but as a force.

Greyfax stumbled back into the cabin, mind spinning. Aware that she’d pushed herself too far. Days without rest, hyper-concentration. The disturbing presence of the alien. She needed a wash, a hot meal, to be away from this thing.

Most of all, she needed to sleep.

She sat on the bunk, then lay down. Just for a moment, then she could put the accursed thing in the hold. Jettison it into the void. Kill Valeria.

Unless… unless she went to Vladus Secondary. For Mankind. For the Emperor.

As she closed her eyes, she thought she heard scratching.

Winds howled around her. Cold and darkness. Dust-dry smell of the sepulchre. Voices that were not voices, singing in a wail like a broken vox.

A psychic mindscape. A vision. They had happened before. Glimpses of the roiling madness of the warp, shifting and breathing in a living kaleidoscope, entities neverborn and thrice-born, swirling and tumbling like debris in a cyclone. Sights and vibrations and tastes without description. Ghosts of sensation. Feelings that were simultaneously like being touched with a feather and cut with a razor. Temperatures she could taste. Colours she could feel. Sounds with solidity and mass.

This was not that.

It was just emptiness. Her senses dumb, even the weight of her body gone.

Greyfax tried to move her fingers and could not. Tried to cry out and was silent. Realised she could not even breathe. Entombed in her own body.

Greyfax felt the panic rise within her, and fought it down. She was no mere body, no sack of meat. Her soul reached beyond matter.

She used the will. Clenching a jaw she knew was there, but could not feel. Forcing her leaden eyelids open. Dragging her head to the left, where she sensed…

Green.

Emerald eyes burning cold. Peering out from below a hood wreathed in eldritch wisps of energy that coiled and reached like sea anemones.

Emeralds. Boring into her essence.

‘Who…?’ she choked.

Then her eyelids slammed shut like blast shutters and her mind went dark.

‘Daraq,’ said Greyfax. ‘Inform the captain, we will be going to Vladus Secondary. I’ve done the charts, it should be two days until low orbit.’

‘I…’ Daraq’s hand was frozen, halfway towards laying a card on the table. The other Kappic Eagles looked over their shoulders at her, spooked. Smoke from lho-sticks hung in the stale cabin air. Daraq scrambled to his feet, followed by the others rising with a chorus of scraping chairs. ‘Yes, inquisitor. Sorry, inquisitor.’

Greyfax started shutting the bulkhead door when she paused, opened it again. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s just… ma’am, you usually summon us. You’ve never come here before.’

‘Oh.’ She squinted. Despite the smoke, the light was very bright, and it was not helping her headache. She was probably dehydrated. ‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, ma’am, except…’

‘Yes? Spit it out.’

‘Do…’ Daraq paused, swallowed. ‘Do you think it’s wise to wear that thing?’

Greyfax looked down.

Around her neck hung a black amulet, shaped like a coffin.

Greyfax’s breath rolled back on her from the constricting rebreather. Claustrophobic and dry, like air through an empty… an empty…

She’d lost it. She’d had a thought, a sensory association, and lost it.

Vladus Secondary was getting to her.

‘Targets, north-west quadrant,’ voxed Daraq through the micro-bead.

In front of her, the two Eagles on the left flank swung their hotshot lasguns around and tracked the silhouettes lumbering through the toxic fog. Monoscope shoulder-mounts followed their helm-shrouded heads, turning in eerie synchronicity.

The kill team had been traversing a crater twenty feet deep, and wide as a city block. Up on the rim, humanoid shapes were silhouetted against the sky.

‘They don’t see us,’ said Valeria in a whisper. ‘We can wait until they pass.’

‘No one needs your opinion,’ said Greyfax, eyes darting to check that Valeria still had the pendant wound around her left hand. ‘You’re here to operate that device, no more.’

The Scions had not liked bringing Valeria. Neither, in honesty, had Greyfax. But she was too dangerous to leave on the ship, and Greyfax could always execute her after they found the blackstone deposit. After all, only Valeria knew how to operate the pendant.

The pendant Greyfax had, at some point, lifted out of the box and put around her own neck. It still bothered her, how exactly that had come to be.

Greyfax blinked, dismissed the thought. An episode of sleepwalking was not unusual for those under extreme stress. The pendant had only touched her for a few minutes, and Valeria carried it now for safety. Any worry about contamination was paranoia.

‘Inquisitor?’ asked Daraq.

Greyfax realised it was the second time he’d asked. ‘Eliminate them.’

‘Tanebrus, keep eyes on the targets,’ Daraq said. ‘Lovan, do it quiet.’

Scion Tanebrus knelt and braced, eye-lens behind his scope. Lovan drew a long dirk, its blued-steel blade whispering as it came free of the sheath, and disappeared into the gloom.

Before it seemed possible that Lovan had closed the distance, the two shapes became three. The new shape enveloped one, forming a single inkblot shadow, then struck out at the second, which stumbled away with a choking gasp.

‘Clear,’ voxed Lovan.

Greyfax signalled the kill team to move up, slowly ascending the loose debris slope.

They found Lovan lying prone beside the bodies, hotshot resting on the crater rim and watching their left.

‘It seems the nuclear torpedoes didn’t kill everything,’ said Valeria.

The dead forms were mutants. Twisted and defiled. One had a tertiary exoskeleton arm, its yellow bone on the outside, its fleshy muscle on the inside, sprouting from its ribs. The other had a vertical mouth slit, its head opening like a carnivorous plant.

‘Chaos corrupts absolutely,’ said Greyfax, nudging an eight-pointed amulet with her foot. ‘Apparently the fleet bombardment did not end the heresy here.’

‘Perhaps,’ whispered Valeria. ‘But a trinket on a chain does not make a warp incursion. This is rad-chem mutation. Outgrowths of their natural bodies after severe genetic damage. We made these monsters.’

‘And Chaos had nothing to do with it, I assume?’

‘The uprising here had no hallmarks of Archenemy activity. Common rebellion. But if an Imperial fleet wasted my world and left it like this, I might be desperate enough to call on the dark.’

‘Do you suggest–’ hissed Greyfax, but Daraq cut her off.

‘More targets.’ He nodded towards the mists.

Greyfax raised her head above the massive crater and saw forms moving out in the wastes. Scuttling low and fast, sliding from crater to chem-ridden crater, picking bones and scavenging carcasses as they went.

‘They saw the lander’s engines,’ said Valeria. ‘We need to move.’

‘What does the artefact say?’ asked Greyfax.

Valeria held the amulet out, swinging a pendulum circle on its chain. Then all at once it pulled north-west, dragged like iron to a magnet. ‘That way. The attraction is strong, must be close.’

Greyfax took a step up on a burned engine block to see over the crater rim, and stumbled.

The scree below the block shifted, slithered, and the engine fishtailed down the crater.

‘Throne,’ Greyfax swore under her breath.

The engine block hit a piece of steel beam with a bang and turned, tumbling end over end into blocks of rockcrete and masonry.

‘Run!’ ordered Daraq.

They scrambled out of the crater and bolted. Keeping along the rim to maintain their height advantage rather than risk crossing again and being surrounded at the bottom.

Wails and shrieks split the chemical fog. Greyfax panted into her rebreather.

A skinless vulpine burst from the yellow fog to her left, and Daraq put it down with a clean hellpistol shot through the brainpan. Two more, their arms overlong – elbows pointing upward like folded wings and running with knuckles on the ground – loomed in front.

Greyfax paused and hip-fired her Condemnor boltgun. Shells lit the sickly air with their propellant trails, exploding the pair, then she went head-down again.

The landscape seemed like it was crawling, as if they’d disturbed a nest of stinging insects who were arising from their burrows. Indeed, ahead of them iron hatches flew open, stones rolling away to reveal tunnels.

‘Underground,’ Valeria said. ‘They survived by going underground.’

‘Shut up.’ Greyfax triggered a grenade and ditched it behind her. She was still running when it exploded, collapsing a side of the crater and taking half a dozen mutants with it. ‘Tell us where we need to go.’

‘Give me a gun!’ Valeria had to shout over the hotshot fire.

‘Just get us that blackstone,’ Greyfax snarled.

A traitor, she thought, leading me to an alien artefact. What have I become? But if it can close the Eye…

‘This way,’ Valeria responded. ‘Towards that ruined steeple.’

A mutant surged up from a hidden tunnel and grabbed Lovan, the scout. He screamed as its talons dragged him into the narrow passage.

‘Leave him!’ Greyfax snapped, seeing Daraq’s hesitation. ‘Stop and we all die.’

Another hatch banged open and Tasa, their volley-gunner, pointed the snub nose of her weapon down into the tunnel and swept it with suppressing fire. Malvola pitched a grenade in and slammed the hatch.

‘My auspex is one big blur!’ said Daraq. ‘We have thousands of contacts moving in. We need to move at speed, go fast, ditch equipment and–’

‘No, stop!’ snapped Valeria. ‘It’s right here, right under our feet. Find a door.’

‘Here,’ said Tasa. ‘It’s big, only open a crack.’

The doors had once been a cathedral entrance, their gold turned to green with encrustation and oxidation. The whole structure had broken in the middle, so the floor inside slanted down. A piece of masonry propped it open.

Tasa slid in first, and they followed her, one by one. Something exploded with a ka-kump and Greyfax realised one of the Scions had dropped a mine. Mutants getting close.

Greyfax shoved Valeria in ahead of her, reached out to grab Daraq with the other hand and pulled him towards the doors. Fool was standing behind, providing covering fire like some kind of hero.

She had to drag him away from the hands of the mutants, rip him physically from the mob with the strength of her power armour. Their claws and limbs followed him through the door, the pack milling and jostling, reaching in towards them. Greyfax saw compound eyes and mouths with other mouths within.

Then she wrenched Daraq backwards, pointed her Condemnor boltgun at the chunk of masonry propping the heavy doors open, and exploded it with a shot.

The double door slammed with a crunch of bone – and shrouded them in darkness.

The air was dry in the cathedral, the angles all wrong on the slanted floor. No smell. No hint of chemical odour. Her psyocculum cycled, struggling to pick up any latent light apart from the glowing eye-lenses and monitron wrist-slates of the Scions.

She broke her respirator seal and sniffed.

The air was clean, breathable. Stale but…

Light popped and sizzled in the darkness and she wheeled around, boltgun levelled.

Valeria stood looking at the wall, her back turned and a green flare above her head. ‘This is it,’ she said. ‘We’re here.’

‘Your xenos device, in a chapel?’

‘You know, Katarinya,’ Valeria said without turning, ‘when I learned you were hunting me – oh yes, I knew, you are not a subtle woman – I knew you’d catch me. Gave me a near breakdown, in fact. If you wanted me, my life was over. And what had I done?’

‘Enough. Consorted with aliens.’

‘Yes, well.’ She turned, rebreather hanging around her neck, and one hand in her coat pocket. ‘That’s what I did, you know. When I heard you were coming. There was an aeldari I’d consulted before. A seer. And not being a witch like you, I couldn’t use the Emperor’s Tarot to see my future. So I went to him.’

‘I’m recording this.’

‘You know what he told me? Not my future. Your future. A future where you walk, and fight, and strive alongside xenos gods and prophets you call heretics. Sitting at the right hand of an apostate lord, one who despises you as much as you do him.’

‘Ridiculous.’

‘That is your future.’

‘Xenos lies. No doubt he told you what you wanted to hear.’

Valeria raised her eyebrows. ‘No, sadly not. You know why he told me your future, Katarinya? Because when I asked him to tell me mine, he told me exactly what I didn’t want to hear.’

‘What is that?’

‘That I don’t have one.’

Wind rushed up through the cathedral, a great exhalation from the Stygian darkness below, dry and tasting of ozone.

‘Daraq, kill her,’ said Greyfax. ‘Daraq? Dar–’

She turned to see the Tempestor on the ground, one hand on his head, staunching a wound. Tasa was turning, volley gun raised safely towards the ceiling. Tanebrus reached for a button to activate the low-light setting on his helm lenses. Malvola reached for a can of synthskin to seal a wound on her forearm.

None moved. They stood, still as marbles in a mausoleum of crusade heroes, frozen the moment the doors had shut.

‘What?’ she asked. ‘What witchcraft is this? An emanation of the Dimensional Forge?’

‘Katarinya, Emil Darkhammer destroyed the Dimensional Forge. You said so yourself. But I knew that it was the only thing that could get you where I needed you.’

‘Needed me for–’

‘My dear lady,’ the voice said, with a grinding like a tomb door broadcast through a vox-array. ‘I see you have brought what we agreed.’

Greyfax snapped around and dropped to one knee, arm thrown out to balance her as she pointed the Condemnor boltgun one-handed.

The abomination stepped out of a green tunnel, its edges weeping coils of shredded dimensional space into the air around, lighting him like the aura of a false saint. Greyfax saw the swing of a rattling cloak, a hunched back, a hood of scalloped metal.

And emerald-green eyes burning cold.

A monster, an ogre from the old faye stories. The sight of him made bile rise in her throat and chilled her belly.

‘Xenos,’ she whispered, and pulled the trigger.

Or tried to. Her finger would not respond.

She remembered the dream, the prison of her body.

Unable to breathe, unable to scream.

‘I have my replacement,’ said Valeria. ‘Inquisitor Greyfax of the Ordo Hereticus, as agreed.’

‘So this is she? The witchfinder of the Ravvan System. Looks quite the part. And a nearly intact kill team of Fifty-Fifth Kappic Eagles – Ninth Company, by the markings. You have done splendidly, Helynna. And she has worn the amulet?’

‘She has the mindshackle. I can see it in her eyes. Now your part. Release me from it.’

‘In good time. Back on Solemnace…’

‘I’m not going back there, that was not part of the bargain. You release me, give me the blackstone–’

‘To remove the mindshackle will take time, and it will be more comfortable…’

Greyfax could not shoot him; he prevented it. From her years of psy-training she could actually visualise the neural pathways being blocked. Deep inside her grey matter, she could feel the spiny legs of things crawling across the pathways of her brain, nestling between lobes and pinching, blocking.

But the ogre was distracted. He’d issued no more orders to the mind-spiders. They were preventing her from shooting him – a singular objective.

And she had the will.

So she pushed, strained.

Swung her bolter away from the monster and directly at Helynna Valeria.

‘Traitor!’ she yelled. The bolter roared.

Greyfax saw the round pierce Valeria’s chest before darkness entombed her.

STACCATA: So… she is dead?

GREYFAX: I saw the round kill her. It is the last thing I saw.

STACCATA: And when you next awoke?

GREYFAX: Cadia. When I battled Abaddon.

STACCATA: Yes, we all know and appreciate your deeds there. And…

[Pause: 2 seconds]

GREYFAX: And what? What are they telling you in the micro-bead?

STACCATA: That the tribunal sees no reason to proceed. We’re done here. You can go.

GREYFAX: I would like to see Valeria formally stripped of credentials and declared traitor.

STACCATA: Why? She is dead. You said so yourself. The matter is closed.

GREYFAX: If you’re hoping to avoid a scandal…

STACCATA: You are sure she’s dead, yes?

[Pause: 2 seconds]

STACCATA: Greyfax? Are you sure she’s dead?

GREYFAX: Yes.

‘What is to be done, Sannet?’

The cryptek looked at his master, his single ocular dimmed in sadness. ‘As far as I can discern, my lord, nothing.’

‘But the stasis field. Surely…?’

‘Your stasis field stopped the projectile at the moment of impact, lord archaeovist. It had already detonated.’ He waved his triple-jointed fingers, bringing up a phos-glyph panel showing points of contact on a human form. ‘There is already shrapnel penetration in the body, within microns of the heart.’

‘We can remove it.’

‘Not without the stasis field deactivating, at which point it will be over. She is, as you see her, in the last possible moment of biological function. Neither dead nor living.’

Trazyn, Archaeovist of the Prismatic Galleries, Overlord of Solemnace and He-Who-Is-Called-Infinite growled, and turned back to the stasis casket.

Within lay Inquisitor Helynna Valeria, a bolt-shell exploding in her chest like a blooming rose placed upon a corpse.

‘Have you interfaced with the chronomancer order?’ Trazyn asked.

‘Beyond their abilities, lord. To reverse the detonation without dropping the stasis field is technically complex, and the potential for catastrophic failure so great they advised against attempting it. Perhaps the Diviner could have done it, but…’ He trailed off and raised a hand, palm upward, in apology. ‘At the very least I can congratulate you.’

‘Congratulate?’

‘You aimed to exchange one inquisitor for another of higher value,’ said Sannet. ‘Instead, you gained both.’

Trazyn looked at the display plinth where the woman Greyfax stood, posed with her Kappic Eagles. Only steps from Valeria in her final moments. He hated even to look upon the Greyfax display, whatever triumph he might have felt stolen by the events surrounding its acquisition. Even having acquired the rest of Greyfax’s Kappic retinue, collected from the ship in orbit and ranked behind her in parade dress, was no consolation.

‘That is true, Sannet. I have gained an inquisitor. But what have I lost?’

Trazyn the Infinite turned and exited the gallery, the stasis-casket following alongside him at a hover. He would not leave Valeria with her killer.

He sealed the tomb doors of the Inquisitorial gallery with a gesture, the blackstone slabs grinding towards each other at a glacial pace.

‘I think we will avoid this gallery for a time,’ Trazyn said, though whether he’d spoken to him – or the stasis-locked Valeria – Sannet couldn’t guess. ‘Perhaps after a few centuries, the wounds will not be so fresh.’

Inside the chamber, barely conscious, Greyfax watched the window of outside light narrow further and further, until only a line of it – dazzlingly bright – bisected her unmoving face.

When the echo of the tomb doors died away, they left her utterly alone. Entombed in a darkness devoid of sight or sensation.

Only the scratching of the mindshackle.

THE BOOK OF CHANGE

Danie Ware

The next report, my lord, concerns an inquisitor of your own ordo by the name of Marissa Khorvayne. If I might be so bold, she appears to be of the breed that seeks to wield the power of the [REDACTED] against them, and since it is not for this humble scholar to say whether this is heresy, I will leave this to your judgement. More troubling is her misguided belief that the ‘voice of the Emperor’ travels with her, and speaks to her directly; a dangerous delusion, as I’m sure my lord will agree. Despite her shortcomings, I must confess that her zeal and prowess make her a staggeringly effective asset in the persecution of the Emperor’s enemies, as my lord will soon see. Leading her retinue in pursuit of a forbidden tome, she wields faith as a weapon against unimaginable horrors.

The incoming message was brief.

Thrown out across the void, soaked in horror, framed by screams. The figures were flickering, hololithic phantoms: Astra Militarum, their combat fatigues and flak armour dirty and stained. They bore rifles, bristling outwards at something that Marissa could not see, but that reflected in their eyes like pure panic.

‘They’re coming,’ they said, static and desperation in every word. ‘They’re com–!’

Barks of orders, the crash of a shattered door. Streaks of las-fire as the enemy burst in upon them. Slashes of claws and steel; red splatters, sudden across the half-light. The full-throated scream of a man in unendurable pain. Cries for mercy–

Then: nothing.

The air fizzed, empty, where the projection had been.

Marissa Khorvayne, her armoured arms folded, her head bared to the steady gleam of the ship’s lumens, nodded once at the message’s end. Turning to the young lieutenant, his uniform in crisp contrast to the bloodstained green and brown of the vanished hololith, she said, ‘And that is all?’

The young man blinked, his own fear tangible.

‘My apologies, inquisitor,’ he said. ‘We have been scanning the vox-channels as per your instruction, but that’s the only solid data we’ve managed to retrieve. The Twelfth Black Knot Company were stationed upon Kuron VI four Solar months ago, their brief to investigate the ruin. Contact ceased–’

‘I am aware of the mission’s parameters.’ Tall, severe, her face a pale, cold mask, her hair a heavy cascade, she regarded the officer until he flinched, rubbing his hands uneasily as if to wash his foolishness away.

He let out his breath, made an effort to lift his chin. ‘I can play it again, if you–’

‘There is no need,’ she told him, her tone ice. ‘Its content is clear, my suspicions confirmed. We will increase speed.’ The words were not a request.

‘I will inform the captain, ma’am. The Courage of Stadius is at your dis–’

‘Of course it is.’ As an inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus, Marissa had the right to demand any course of action, in His name – to command troops, Naval or otherwise; to take control of a planetary authority, up to and including the rank of governor. She walked around the still-crackling emptiness, studying it as if she could see into its heart, its dreams, its fears.

The horrors it had not revealed.

Ah, the voice in her head said softly, answering her unspoken questions. It was deep and rich, like a plucked string, but less like reassurance than it was the caress of the darkness itself. As you surmised, this is the hand of the Ancient Foe – its touch and taint, soaking and staining. You feel it, I know how acutely. You must carry your light. His light. My light. Burn it into their eyes, child, and sear them from the very world they pollute. Then, your target will be exposed.

The low thrum filled her mind, her soul; she welcomed and embraced it.

Oh yes, she told it in return. I will face them, fearless. I will send them, screaming, back to the very hells from which they came. And I will laugh.

The internal voice was her own, and His blessing. It was guide, mentor, purpose. It had been with her for as long as she could remember, from her earliest days upon Ghorlos, carrying her through the terrors of the Seventh Watch Massacres and into the care of her mentor, Inquisitor Hrake. It had sustained her throughout her training and his death, enabled her to take up his mantle and the torch of the Emperor Himself.

It had also made her pure, strong, untouchable by the Enemy. And this – this! – was exactly the kind of mission for which she had been born, forged, annealed. She was His word, His vengeance. And she would cauterise any trace of Chaos, right back to the planet’s very rock.

And further, if He commanded.

I feel your rage, child, the voice said. My faithful, my daughter, my blood, my blade…

She closed a hand around her rosette, hanging loose on its chain; gripped it until its hard edges scraped against the ceramite of her gauntlets.

The officer was still watching her, poised on his toes like prey, as if he didn’t know whether to flee or to wait for more orders.

‘Captain Curtia understands your need for swiftness,’ he offered. ‘She says it will be less than two Solar days.’

Marissa could feel the great ship around her, its metal and spirit groaning like some vast and semi-slumberous creature, now stirring to creaking wakefulness. Its distant engines thumped and thundered, shaking through the steel of its bones.

‘Good,’ she told the officer. ‘I will retire to my quarters and brief my staff.’ She met his gaze full-on. ‘Do not disturb me, lieutenant.’

The officer paled, but said only, ‘Ma’am.’

Ruin and dust, and now stalked by the Enemy… and the thing I came so far to find…

Marissa leaned forward and clicked off the hololith, let the cloud of static gutter and fade.

They would see the real fears, soon enough.

Planet Kuron VI.

A ruined hive world, orbiting far out from a tiny, blue-white star. Founded and then abandoned during the Forging, its main habitation was a vast and maze-like tangle, ruined upon its surface and descending far below into the planet’s forgotten, granite depths. Once, there had been billions of people here – clerks, administrators, labourers. No one of any consequence, but the tiniest of cogs, driving bigger wheels, and bigger wheels, and ultimately, the bureaucratic engines of the Imperium. Four Solar months before, the 12th Black Knot Company had been despatched from Galeria with reconnaissance orders, to explore and assess.

There was no need to waste a stronger force on a world that offered so little. After all, there were always more cogs.

Marissa however, had a deeper purpose.

In her quarters, she stood at a second hololith, this one of the planet itself, turning silent and serene in the centre of the room. Occasional points of interest flared out from the gently rotating sphere – the governor’s palace, the space ports, the immense warrens of cubicles and dormitories that were the central Administratum complex.

Carefully, she noted each one, indicated that her retinue should do likewise.

They did not argue.

At her shoulder – Sergeant Kezia Gale. Ex-Militarum herself, an older woman who’d once had a reputation for ruthless in-the-field leadership. Later, she’d been one of the few survivors of the horrific tyranid massacre on Telestis; she’d been known to howl in her sleep, haunted by monsters. Under Marissa’s charge, however, she’d transformed her night-time terrors to daytime actions, and now she hunted those monsters with a focus that verged on demented.

At the control panel – Adept Din-14. He was small for a priest of the Mechanicus, his multiple legs bent beneath his scarlet cloak. One dark-skinned hand moved over the panel, deft and assured; the other was already plugged in, its metallic fingers extended. His face, still flesh and eerily beautiful, was bathed in the screen-light, and his lips moved in prayers to the Omnissiah.

These two were familiar, trusted. The others…

Lounging back against the far wall – Syn, a Callidus Temple assassin. The woman was typical of her type, though she lacked the Temple’s more elite hardware. She was slight, wiry, wary, her eyes as hard as the blades she carried. She had botched a job, and been seconded into Marissa’s employ.

And lastly, standing frowning at the planet’s details, the other newcomer – Aris Manistallis Mundas, once an Administratum official himself. He was a pale man, round of belly, bald of pate and already sweating, though the environmentals were set to an ambient temperature. Despite his appearance, however, this mission was his area of knowledge, more so than any of the rest.

The rumour went that he had once read The Litany of the Devouring Hollow – a text of Chaos from the days of the Horus Heresy and soul-taintingly blasphemous, enough to scar and tear one’s thoughts, to leave them wounded and bleeding. How such a thing had come into his possession, Marissa did not know, and had not asked.

She simply needed him, his insight. And, like the assassin, he was expendable.

Glancing at her, Mundas mopped his brow with an already grubby kerchief. ‘I would suggest, ma’am,’ he said, his tone habitually apologetic, ‘that we commence our search at the Administratum complex itself. The background of the message suggests a style-three-zero-seven-six cubicle, used by clerks from levels seven through fifteen–’

‘Agreed.’ The adept’s tone was flat, his brown eyes now closed. ‘Landing pad four-one-eighty, district designation nine point five. Chances of successful progression: ninety-three per cent. It is adequate.’ His perfect lips precisely completing each word, he continued to pray, offering his litanies to the screen, and to the spirit of the great ship.

Mundas nodded, putting the kerchief in a pocket. He was still sweating.

At Marissa’s gesture, the sergeant snapped orders into the vox – timings, weapons, logistics. She had no need for Marissa to describe the details: Gale knew the inquisitor’s operational parameters like the back of her lasrifle.

The assassin still lounged, ice-hard eyes moving from face to face, saying nothing.

Marissa eyed her briefly, but she too understood.

She understands all too well, the voice told her, amused. Her part will come.

In their midst, the ruined planet continued to turn, its noted landmarks lunging from its surface one at a time, as if they clawed outwards for the group’s very souls.

Stone dust, dark and chill and fine.

Marissa had removed her gauntlet and the dust scratched between her fingertips. The opening shuttle-bay doors had driven it hard into the corners, along with a lifetime of other debris – the rusting parts of cogitators, tangles of corroded wires. A single forgotten boot.

Around them, the bay was huge, resonant and hollow, its lumens all but dead. The shuttle’s lights had stretched phantoms from its corners, shadows rising and gibbering as the vehicle had come in to land, and then, as they’d turned off, reaching up to swallow it completely.

Now, the emptiness was all but pitch-dark, echoing to their breaths. The air thronged with suggested terrors, and a rising sense of fear and dread.

There were things here.

Somewhere.

Waiting.

Rising to her feet, the inquisitor brushed the dust from her hands, the gesture decisive.

Let them come. Her challenge was internal, her resolve wrapped like cold and shining wires around the heart of her unshakeable faith. Fear was for the unworthy.

I will slay them all.

We will slay them all, the voice told her, its touch like a caress.

Anticipation surged; she controlled it, pulling her gauntlets back on. Over the vox, she said to Gale, ‘Move out.’

‘Ma’am.’

They deployed in a tight group, the sergeant at their head, the assassin at the rear. The Arvus was locked, its security system active, but Marissa had no fears that it would be touched, or fall victim to sabotage.

No, the things here lurked deeper, away from the sun’s harsh glare.

Her anticipation flared again; her hand tightened on her incinerator.

They moved.

Soon, they had left the shuttle bay behind them. The tunnels and corridors were a sprawl of Imperial numbering, jumbled with complex, bureaucratic minutiae. Marissa was familiar with their progression, however, and she did not need the adept’s precise, numerical mind, nor Gale’s experience, to understand the layers. The upper floors would have larger offices and individual sleeping quarters, home to senior figures who made decisions and carried them forth. The lower you travelled, the smaller everything became.

This was not the level they needed. Following the complex numbering, she located the grav-lift – and found a shaft that plunged downwards into nothingness: a yawning, square chasm, lined with wires, stretching to the planet’s stone guts.

There was no sign that the lift had moved, no sign that the Militarum’s earlier recon had come this way. Yet from the hole there came a breath as foul as every hell, a whisper of laughter, a touch of gibbering madness.

It floated up on a chill wind, a hint of the labyrinth below.

This is the way, Marissa thought, the knowledge settling upon her like a fall of snow.

Beside her, Mundas shuddered. His Militarum combats looked odd on his rotund frame. He mopped his forehead again, twisting his kerchief between pudgy hands.

She shot him a warning look, then said, ‘Din.’

The adept was already at the control panel, his fingers extended to communicate with its sleeping spirit.

A moment later, there came the clunk and rattle of the rising lift.

Careful, the voice told her. It sounded almost amused.

She did not need the warning. Gale gestured, and the group fell back; the sergeant covered the lift with her lasrifle.

The voice in Marissa’s head laughed, soft as good fabric. She wondered what it found humorous.

At the panel, the adept shuddered.

She flicked him a glance, her hand gripping the incinerator. Below them, the lift clunked to a stop. Gale leaned forwards, pointing the weapon down the shaft, snapping a warning over the vox. But Marissa was still looking at Din, watching as his brown eyes rolled back in their sockets, as he began to shake. His jaw spasmed; a bubble of scarlet appeared at the corner of his mouth. A sharp burst of binary cut across the sergeant’s orders – swift, hard, incomprehensible.

Din was twitching, his hand still plugged into the panel.

A second later, the assassin’s soft-soled, grox-leather boot hit the adept’s wrist, jerking it sideways. His fingers sparked, stayed plugged. Syn kicked him again, again, knocking him backwards, sending a spasm of sudden electricity down the shaft.

Din stumbled, his spider-legs folding, his red cloak billowing away to reveal their claw-tips flexing, clicking, as if plagued by some unseen nightmare. But his hand was free, its fingers still extended in some great web-pattern from his augmetic wrist.

Marissa’s internal voice was still chuckling ironically, darkly amused. Touch not the Foe directly, my warrior, it said. It seeks to trap and to trick you, but you must not fall prey to such simple games. You have larger considerations.

‘I will not be thwarted!’ The words were snapped, both aloud and internal. She knelt by the fallen adept, placed her gauntleted hand upon his flexsteel chestplate. The gesture was not compassion; it was both demand and challenge, daring the nightmare to manifest, to come out and face her in person.

I see you! she thought. I see your accursed touch! Will you face me, blessed as I am?

The adept’s eyes snapped open. His mouth extended into a white grin almost wider than his jaw. His teeth were streaked with his own blood and his visage was demented, filled with a crazed elation. He said, his voice a hiss, ‘We see you, inquisitor. You do not yet comprehend. Come to us, find the deeper truth!’

Syn was at her shoulder now, the assassin’s expression cool, questioning. Marissa raised a hand to signal her back. ‘No,’ she said, over their tight-beam link. ‘We need him. If he is still tainted when we leave, then I’ll give him to you.’

Silently, Syn twitched a shoulder and drifted back. Gale shot her a glance from the corner of her eye, but the sergeant was still covering the lift.

A second later, and of its own volition, it started moving once more. Gale stepped back, rifle ready.

Beside Marissa, Din stirred, his hand retracting. Licking his lips with a bitten, bloody tongue, he said, suddenly very human, ‘There’s something down there, inquisitor, something much older. This facility…’ He stopped, swallowed. A second burst of binary came over the vox. ‘It was built on an older site. Something founded before the Great Crusade.’

Carefully, Marissa assimilated this fragment of new knowledge, inspecting it from every angle. Such things were not uncommon – the Great Crusade had founded many Imperial worlds and doctrines upon the remains of older civilisations.

Letting the adept rise back to his multiple feet, she smiled. ‘Do not fear, child, such things cannot touch you while I am here.’

Again, the assassin questioned; again, Marissa gestured her back.

She had no fear of Din’s possessor, and any information it revealed might yet turn out to be useful.

Despite Din’s tremble and the sergeant’s warning, the lift was empty when it arrived.

Bristling with suspicion, the group packed tight within, and it descended with surreal smoothness. It smelled like sweat and fear, like metal and dirt. The adept’s feet were all pulled in under him; his human lips prayed constantly, though whether that was for the spirit of the lift, or for his own soul, Marissa did not know.

The sergeant was tense, disliking the box and its obvious vulnerability, but the inquisitor was not worried. The Enemy was anticipating the game far too keenly to attempt an attack somewhere so obvious.

Another level, another, another. There were no numbered lights to count them down, only the slices of faint illumination that flicked past the dirty glass doors.

Older civilisation or not, Marissa knew what she sought, and she intended to find it…

The librarium.

Another floor flashed past, vanished. The sergeant was sweating now; beside her, Mundas was closed-eyed and praying almost as fervently as the adept. The sharp reek of fear became stronger.

Still Marissa ignored it. Her mind stayed on her mission, on the information that had brought her here. Contacts and hints, questions and interrogations, snippets of forgotten lore. She had chased this target for two Solar years, halfway across the galaxy. The message from the doomed Militarum unit had been the final piece of the puzzle. It had touched her like His grace, like the key in the lock that would open the last door…

Of course there was something older, lurking here. It made absolute sense.

You are close, the voice said. So close, my child. Almost close enough to touch. The book you seek can be yours; it can bring you the strength and insight to take your faith and calling to new heights. You know that its pollution cannot touch you, not while I am with you…

With a jerk, the lift stopped, making the group stumble. For a second, they paused, waiting, breaths held, weapons ready, staring out through the glassaic, now running foggy with the condensation of their presence. The sergeant voiced orders, her tone sharp and soft, but they knew their deployment tactics well. As the doors hissed open, Gale took point, was out and into the corridor, rifle and suit light pointed outward, cutting the darkness into cowering shadows, all coiling and filled with threat.

Yes, the voice told Marissa. Soon…

It was the adept that faltered first.

Claws rattling spider-like, he staggered sideways, his augmetic hand covering his face. As Marissa turned, giving the order to halt, Din was already dragging his web of metallic fingers down over his human flesh, gouging it to long and bloody weals.

Once again, the assassin was at Marissa’s shoulder, utterly silent, her expression intently curious and cold.

‘It’s the angles…’ Din said, his voice flickering between human and metallic. ‘The angles make no sense. They’re wrong. They’re all wrong…’ He was shaking, pointing.

Marissa looked.

Around them, the corridors were endless – junctions and corners and square, steel doors, every one etched with its correct designation. They did not look out of place. Regular lumen-globes, their energy all but spent, were linked with neatly cabled skeins of wires; control screens sat at intervals, waiting for touches that would never come.

Here and there hung servitors’ walkways, rusting but still in place. Beneath them, dust made shadowed heaps, like loitering ghouls.

The adept shuddered, dragged his interface away from his dark, bloodstained skin. ‘The corners.’ He was staring at the lumens, faint as ghosts. ‘They’re wrong. Can you not see? Their perspectives are warped.’ The word was a twist of desperation. ‘That one.’ He pointed his human hand. ‘It bends the wrong way, beyond possibility. It’s twisted. And that one. And that one.’ Another point. ‘Such calculations… cannot be. They’re all wrong. The angles of the corridors cannot exist.’

Marissa and Gale exchanged a brief glance, and Gale twitched one shoulder in a shrug. Whatever it was that Din could see, neither sergeant nor inquisitor could make it out.

They were being teased – and not by the adept.

Mundas mopped his forehead. The assassin still hovered, watching.

‘You will control yourself,’ Marissa said to the adept. ‘Such things are of little consequence, and we will face greater issues than this. We continue.’

In her head, the voice laughed. Ah, the poor child. So addicted to mathematical perfection that he is compelled to madness with such ease. I fear he will not last long.

He will last as long as is necessary, Marissa returned, calmly. I have anticipated his failure and the contingency is already in place.

They had not gone much further, however, before they stopped once more.

This time, Gale was looking around at the doorways, at the pattern in which the corridors were laid out.

‘We’ve turned back on ourselves,’ she said. Confused, she shone her suit light at the nearest steel door, at the numerals etched upon its rusting surface. ‘This is sub-level nine. And that means we should be nearing the control hub…’

‘We’re going round in circles,’ Mundas agreed, his tone bleak. ‘We’ve already been this way.’

Controlling a flash of impatience, Marissa turned to look.

Felt a breath touch her ear, the back of her neck.

What?

In the almost-darkness, something had ghosted past her, something teasing, mocking. The still air stirred with a soft chuckle; a cold chill went down her spine, a touch like the caress of a blade.

Somewhere, something was laughing at them.

Instinctively, the group pulled closer together. The adept was muttering aloud now, bursts of looping, binary prayer. Even the assassin was wary; her attention pointed outwards, her blade glinting in her hand.

Mundas was shuddering, sweat pouring down his bald head. He mopped it constantly, twisting his kerchief in his hands like some sacred talisman. He, too, was muttering, over and over, ‘Be with me, my Emperor. Be with me…’

‘Desist,’ Marissa commanded him, almost irritably. ‘There is no need for fear. These are illusions, games, nothing more. I carry His light and His word, and I say we will not be stopped. Sergeant, you will locate the correct passage and we will continue.’

‘Ma’am.’

They followed the sergeant, onwards through the breath-filled almost-dark.

Soon, they were completely lost.

Despite Marissa’s steel determination, they had passed the same junction three times. Each time, Gale had pointed them down the correct route, and each time the route had changed – doors appeared in different places, walls moved, junctions vanished when they turned around.

The laughter was everywhere now; it seemed to shadow them like some phantom footpad, mocking their efforts as they began to weary.

Din became increasingly distressed. Unable to process the impossibility of the changes, the adept became more and more erratic, sparks flashing across his augmetic arm and hand, their colours echoing in his dark eyes like a data-stream. Once, he stopped by one of the diagnostic panels, seeking solutions, but Marissa commanded him away – if he plugged himself in down here, the results could be devastating.

‘He is not strong,’ the inquisitor told Syn, over the tight-beam. ‘Be aware. Await my order.’

‘Ma’am.’

More worrying, however, was the mania haunting Mundas. His forbidden knowledge – so essential to Marissa’s victory – was fragmenting as his confusion grew. He carried only a laspistol, still undrawn, and he’d wrapped his arms around himself, rocking and muttering, praying incessantly.

This could not be permitted. She needed him. She could not find the librarium without him.

A sharp backhand across his cheek left a weal the exact shape of her gauntlet. He cowered, muttered his apologies.

They kept moving.

Before long, though, even Gale was faltering, her old monsters rising to assail her. Her past was manifest in her present; she flinched at shadows, shone her suit light in every direction at once, looking to find and name her fears. She, too, was starting to mutter, though her tone was swollen with rage. Under her breath, she gave orders to a platoon long lost.

I am surrounded by fools, Marissa thought. Their faith is not enough. They are weak.

But you are strong, the voice told her. Stronger than such childishness. You must go on. The text will be ours!

She did as the voice bid her. She was on the right path, and she had come too far to falter now.

Another corridor, another corner, another doorway…

The same junction, again.

This time, Din collapsed, his multiple legs sagging sideways. Sparks crackled under his cloak.

Marissa regarded him, but he showed no recognition. His eyes were rolled far back, as if he sought answers in his own thoughts; his mouth, still bloody, muttered and frothed.

She contemplated him for a moment, but the conclusion was clear.

‘We continue,’ she said.

Mundas looked at her, his sweating face pale. ‘Ma’am?’

‘Is your hearing deficient?’ It was a snap, cold as the walls themselves. Knotting his kerchief, the administrator did not argue further. They moved on, leaving the fallen adept behind them.

His mutters and clicks followed in their wake, fading into the dark. Sparks lashed after them, as if he wished to call them back.

No one saw Syn drift away from the rest of the group to end his suffering.

Marissa had little patience with failure and, at the end of the day, this outcome had always been inevitable. Few would be strong enough to withstand the presence of the text she sought.

And what was another lost cog, in the name of His glory?

Steps.

They’d found them by accident, almost stumbling over their lip. And now they saw it: a maw of darkness, glistening stone walls that faded to an utter, consuming black. Gale’s suit light shone downwards, and was lost.

An accident? the voice said, rich with amusement. Truly, my child, your faith has led you here.

The air was ice cold; their breaths steamed like their souls were already fleeing.

And they could hear, from somewhere below, that same, easy laughter. It touched their skin like gentle fingers, stirred their hair like a chill breeze from some left-open window.

It plucked at them, mocking, said: Come closer.

The administrator stared fixedly at the stairwell, at the steps slick with old frost. There was nothing else – no rail, no wires, no panels.

No numbers.

This would be the ancient place, the other place.

‘It’s down there.’ Mundas’ kerchief was back, though it was now little more than a rag. ‘I remember. I can feel the words, feel them in my flesh like teeth…’ His shuddering peaked. ‘They call to me. They tell me of another power, another time. They call to me like the greatest hunger I have ever known. They call to me like forbidden places, like books locked shut with the padlocks of millennia. They want… They want me. Want to hold my soul forever. Tear into me, again and again and again and again and again and again…’

‘Of course they do.’ Marissa cut across his muttering, her response bleak and unimpressed. She, too, could feel the yawning pull of the stairwell, as if it led down to some vacuum, some sucking event horizon that she would neither resist nor escape from.

But He was with her.

Always.

You will be enough, the voice said. You destroyed the Cult of Blood on Zain Prime; you brought Exterminatus to the faithless of Lauden; you stood fast against the pollution of the daemon prince Yanya. You are my force and my will, and this cannot gainsay you.

‘Sergeant.’ She snapped the order, but Gale did not move. Like Mundas, she was staring, transfixed, at the hungry darkness below.

‘They’re all in there,’ she said, softly. ‘Can’t you hear them? They come, they come in their thousands. Their tens of thousands, their hundreds of thousands. They click and they seethe and they cannot be stopped. I saw them, I saw my whole platoon… We had no hope. They died, all of them screaming. Dismembered. Pieces, flying pieces. I was helpless. And I watched.’

She was white as ash, her eyes dark with horrors.

Marissa held to her anger. Of all of her followers, she valued the sergeant – needed her – the most. Gale had been the rock against which the inquisitor had set her back.

She would not permit her to falter.

‘He is with you,’ she said, her tone filled with confidence, control. ‘He stands at your back, your shoulder. You do not fear the terrors of the night-time. You will slay them, sergeant, as you slew them once before. In His name.’

At the rear, the assassin still said nothing. Her calm, slightly cynical expression had never wavered, never changed.

Slowly, holding her own belief as if it were a beacon, Marissa started down the steps.

The stone was slippery with ice and age, and the laughter immediately grew louder, swirling around her like a nightmare. It was filled with words, with text that made ribbons and encircled her, that threatened to tie her in knots of temptation and confusion. By the fourth step, the air had become thick and grey; the light had all but gone. By the sixth it had vanished completely – even the square of the tunnel above her had disappeared, like it had never been. The darkness was absolute. It denied faith, denied light; it swaddled her as if in some huge, black cloth. She could see nothing, hear nothing; her vox crackled empty. She had no awareness of the others around or behind her.

Come to us…

There was only the laughter, teasing; only the sensation of vast age, of patience, of mined stone distorted by the pressing weight of millennia, of the things that had hidden within, gibbering and crazed, elated by their own, consuming madness…

Hold fast, the voice said. Do not fear the phantoms of the dark. I am with you.

She held to His strength, to His light and presence, but still, the touches were penetrating that armour, that defiance. They flowed around her like apparitions, finding the cracks, curling in against her skin, shoving her playfully, this way and that. The shape of the stone felt wrong; the confusion of the tunnels above had been nothing, a tease, a reflection. Just an echo of what really lay here…

A labyrinth with no end. An impossible maze, one that she could never leave…

Hold! Amid the taunting, the lifeline that was His voice, the calling from her childhood. It was everything she had ever been, everything she would be and more.

She curled her hands about it as if it were a physical thing, held it aloft.

Slowly, the claws of the laughter drew back and she became aware of the sounds around her. Of boots, of mumbles, of harsh breathing.

The sounds of life.

‘I do not fear you!’ She cried the words aloud, heard them crash back down upon her, as if she had startled the very stone. ‘I am Marissa Khorvayne and I am His word, His hand, His justice! And I will drive you back!’

There: the faintest glimmer of light.

It came from somewhere ahead, a flicker like some lone electro-candle, and it moved, dancing this way and that. It pulled her attention like a clarion call to battle, focused everything she was down to a single, honed-sharp point.

Across the vox, not knowing whether the others could hear her or not, she said, ‘We move. Follow the light.’

The vox-channel hissed at her, filling with voices unknown. They were a choir now, thronging soft with sour disharmony; they grew louder. She had not realised that she had fallen, but now she managed to stand, to force the darkness back.

More noises – the slithering of stone, corridors and junctions that still moved, shifting about her endlessly, as if nothing down here were real or made sense.

She said again, ‘Follow the light.’

A hand grabbed her. She started, reached for her weapon, but it was the square, callused hand of the sergeant. She took Gale’s wrist, pulled her to her feet. A moment later, her suit light blazed in Marissa’s face.

The inquisitor neither blinked nor flinched.

Gale lowered the light, and the inquisitor could hear the relief in the sergeant’s breathing.

‘Just you?’ Marissa said.

Gale’s eyes were wide and wild, but she’d made it, lasrifle still in her hand. Of the assassin or the administrator, there was no sign.

‘Can you see the light?’ Marissa asked.

Gale nodded, the muscles in her jaw jumping. The sergeant’s scalp was stubbled, Marissa noticed. Had she not been clean-shaven when they’d started?

Laughter, again. It was her doubts that were letting it in.

Angry, she threw them aside.

They would do this. That text would be hers.

They went on downwards, and the dancing light led them, as if it were His blessing, come to guide them to the answer.

The light was not His guide.

It was a game; it had all been a game.

Before them emerged an open arch, curved and rank with age, its door fallen and its sides crumbling. Behind it, a chamber that sighed with the dust of millennia.

But that chamber bore shelves – stone shelves, lines and lines and lines of them. They stretched back into an unseen distance.

Laughter, plucking at her like fingers.

So, you have found us, it said. But are you enough? Can you comprehend what you have discovered?

Looking at the endless, parallel lines that stretched into apparent infinity, she did not let its taunt touch her – could not, must not, let it touch her. She lifted her chin.

‘You do not frighten me, horrors of the warp. He is a part of me, a part of my very soul. Who else in the Imperium entire can make such a claim? I am His chosen child, and I am unique in my blessing!’

The laughter curled round her like a caress. Such arrogance! it said. For a moment, it sounded just like the voice in her head, like her very faith and calling were being turned upon her. Your pride is oh so very great, and your fall will be oh so very far…

No! She set herself against it like she’d braced her boots on the stone. I am His chosen! I will not give credence to your blasphemy!

Beside her, Gale was still standing, though the woman’s eyes were filled with phantoms. Marissa nodded at her; she met the inquisitor’s gaze, returned the nod, then focused her attention on the librarium.

‘We seek a text,’ Marissa said. ‘It is called The Book of Change. We will find it, His hand will guide us. And then we will leave this accursed place.’

They stepped forward. And as they entered the chamber, the floor fell away, though their boots did not move. The ceiling spun up and out and was gone; the lines and shelves wavered and shook as if space itself were changing, as if there were nothing solid upon which they could walk.

But Gale still stood firm.

‘We must close our eyes,’ Marissa said. ‘He will reveal to us the true path.’

They did so.

Show me, the inquisitor said to her internal voice. Show me the way!

Walk, it told her, and I will watch where you tread. You are close, so close…

They walked, one boot in front of the other. Another step, another step. Resisting the urge to open her eyes, to witness the distortion that tangled around them, Marissa walked through the centre of the madness, through a folding of time and space and reality that they had no way to encompass or comprehend. The laughter was still there, but there was a voice in it now, deep and strong.

Come, my child, my daughter…

A pure, cold shock:

Which voice was that? Was it within her, or without? What–?

The fear was sudden, sharp. Horrific. It cut an abrupt gash in her self-belief, her armour, and more and more questions flooded through the hole. What was the thing that had called her here? Had they taken five steps? Five hundred? Five thousand? Had they just entered, or had they walked for years?

She did not know. There was stubble on the sergeant’s head. Her voice, her guiding voice – what was it? She–

A hand, grabbing her ankle.

Marissa opened her eyes, looked down.

The librarium was all round them now, its lines twisting onwards to insanity. Books repeated themselves over and over; they floated from one shelf to another, or opened and flicked pages, as if reading themselves. Ladders hung on rails, but they too were warped beyond reason; shadows flicked from shelf to shelf.

And the light, the dancing electro-candle they’d followed, it hung in the air before them now, like laughter, and showing…

In His name!

Marissa stood upon a floating fragment of floor, unconnected to anything around it. And there, curled at her feet, was Mundas’ body, a rictus grin of victory on his round, dead face.

In his hand was a steel casket, rusted to powder; about the casket hung the ancient remains of a chain, a mighty padlock. All were covered with wards, but they were too old to make out, and they distorted as she looked at them, making her face hot and her skull pound…

The symbols of the Enemy.

This – this! – was the thing that she sought, the text she’d come so far to find. This was the thing that had destroyed this world, and that had loosed its monsters upon the searching Militarum. And this was the thing that would grant her the power and insight to carry His name to new heights, to hunt and slay His foes across the galaxy entire…

There was still no sign of the assassin, but that didn’t matter now.

With a voxed warning to the sergeant, Inquisitor Marissa Khorvayne leaned down to take her prize…

But she did not reach it.

Mundas’ attack was savage and swift. His face still pulled in its rictus of death, his body began to shift, swell and change. Great, clawed limbs thrust forth from his flesh, tore out through his fatigues. They anchored themselves in the twisted walls of the librarium, and he rose and spread and scuttled like some vast and sickening spider. The sergeant raised the lasrifle, shot him clean through the skull, but his head was already stretching, changing, his jaws extending, his eyes becoming multiple, popping out of his skin like new growths.

The thing was horrific, but Marissa did not falter – Mundas was dispensable, had always been so. Though her assassin was gone, Marissa would finish this task herself.

Calm, she raised her incinerator, fired a blast. Mundas’ flesh melted, bubbling and smoking; its growths shrivelled and fell free. The creature hissed at her, charred and lowering its head in pain, but it did not stop. Laughter rose from it like the stench of burned flesh.

So pathetic. So tiny. You think you can slay me?

The words echoed round the inside of her skull, rattling harshly. Her piece of floor was growing smaller, shrinking beneath her feet, but she ignored it – it was only there to make her fear. The sergeant, ashen, was still firing, loosing her internal monsters with a roar of old orders, of rage and defiance. Scarlet streaks struck out from her rifle, searing dark, burned holes through the monster’s flesh.

But from every wound, there came a new limb; for every strike, the thing seemed to grow. It was as big as the width of the shelves, bigger, its bulk swollen and discoloured. It leered down at them, laughing from Mundas’ distorted, human mouth.

‘Join us,’ it said, now aloud. Books fell with the power of its words, tumbling over and over as they vanished into bottomless dark. ‘You will never leave this place. Celebrate its power, its ability to fold reality as it may. You are close to us already, inquisitor, will you not take that final step? Open the book! Open the book, and let us touch you as we have already touched your minion!’

Marissa put one boot firmly on the rusting box, felt the ancient chain clank free as if eager. She could hear it, calling to her, feel its power as if it already coursed through her being…

But she was stronger.

‘He is with me,’ she answered, her voice brittle and fierce.

But His voice had gone, drowned out by the monster’s scorn.

A wisp of fear coiled in her heart. Furious at her own weakness, she pointed her incinerator at the thing’s still-rippling face, shot it again and again. She saw its flesh melt like tallow, its multiple eyes turn white with the scorching blasts of heat.

But in her head – or was it in her ears? – a voice was talking to her, teasing her still. Yes, my child, this is what you wanted, is it not? You walk the wire, inquisitor, teetering between one side and the other, comprehending the Enemy and yet so close to what you defy. Will you not… just…

The weakness in her was crystallising, spreading like ice over her flesh. Doubt grew in her heart. The thing’s mouth moved with the words, but its skin was still melting and the last syllable was a blur – was it ‘read’, ‘bleed’, ‘accede’?

Beside her, the sergeant’s power pack ran down and she slumped, shuddering, her defiance all but spent.

But Gale was not done – not yet. With a final shout, mustered from the depths of her soul, acting as if she could save the platoon she’d lost, she pulled the combat knife from her belt and lunged at the thing’s face.

She did not hit. The blade went through and the thing flickered like the hololith that had brought them here. Gale overbalanced, could not right herself, tripped on the edge of the non-existent floor, and went over.

Falling, and falling, and falling, like the books, spinning downwards into nothingness.

The vox crackled and spat. If she had last words, Marissa did not hear them.

Anger rose in the inquisitor’s heart, melting the ice, sublimating it to a steam of pure fury.

No! I am Marissa Khorvayne! And I am His chosen!

She loosed a third blast with the incinerator, watched as it billowed to a cloud of red-tinged steam. The thing screeched in pain; she heard it moving, its claws scuttling and scraping. Books tumbled in flutters like injured flyers. Then its half-melted face, still with Mundas’ horrific rictus grin, broke free from the smoke and leered down at her.

New eyes had burst forth from its skin. Loose, molten flesh dripped from its chin.

Not here, inquisitor. He cannot touch you here. Only I can touch your thoughts…

My daughter.

‘Blasphemy!’

The word was a howl, fury and denial. She raised the incinerator again, but it slashed a claw at her, taking the weapon from her grasp and spinning it down into infinity.

It laughed, the noise like an invasion. Trust me, it said. Open your mind, your heart.

But Marissa had another weapon. A blessed weapon. A weapon of His grace.

Blade of Blight, Scourge of Scourges.

It was a weapon of toxins, a frothing thing that strained constantly at its bindings, and dripped ichor like blood already drawn. It could slice through steel, but that was not its greatest strength.

No, this blade carried a song of inevitability, of the wisdom of accepting one’s fate. It faced the flux of impossible change with the pure fact of death.

She drew it forth, saw the thing’s limitless eyes, still popping like blisters, all following the movement of the sword.

For just a moment, it paused.

And Marissa, just as Gale had done, drove her blade at the thing’s face.

It scuttled, shielding itself with multiple forelimbs, howling as they were carved clean through. It shifted, its feet catching more books; it lost its hold and almost fell. The blade slashed at it, slashed again. More limbs came to block, to try to shove her back, but Marissa could feel Him now, back with her, back in His glory.

Yes! The voice in her head celebrated with her. You are strong, my daughter! Let the joy of the fight consume you!

And the blade struck.

By the power of the weapon, by His blessing, by the strength of her own belief, it sank into the creature’s face. A ripple of rot broke out across Mundas’ warped, burned visage. A moment later it was everywhere, eating his flesh, his bones, his muscles.

He shrieked, the noise enough to shake the whole librarium, to tumble books from shelves that fell, like the sergeant, forever.

For a second, the beast clung on, Mundas’ face contorting; she raised the blade again…

But it was enough.

The creature, the administrator, the sword, all rotted to nothing and were gone.

Like the hololith, only a static and phantom smoke remained, only a trickle of dust. Marissa stood upon the stone floor of a long room, shelved down either side. At her feet there lay her incinerator, and a crumbling steel box.

And in her head, the voice was clamouring in glory, a wrath of glee, a bell-tone like a cathedral tocsin. It was deafening, yet she knew it was not sounding aloud.

My daughter! it said. Such strength, such fortitude! Truly, you are my chosen, my ultimate weapon. You are enough to carry this text, to use it to slay my foes…

Always, she told it. I stand in your light. I will not fail.

Beside the box, Gale lay dead, her eyes fixed on something Marissa could not see. There was no sign of Mundas.

And the assassin…

Syn lounged, perfectly casual, against the side of the archway, her expression as calmly cynical as ever.

As Marissa raised an eyebrow, she shrugged. ‘There was no reason for me to enter the room, inquisitor. Such was not my brief. And it seems I have no further need to… watch… your retinue.’

Almost in spite of herself, Marissa spared Gale a second glance, felt the splinter in her heart that was the death of the sergeant. Yet she had perished facing the Foe, in combat and honour, and her troubled mind had at last found the peace of the Throne.

Looking back up at Syn, Marissa nodded. ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘Though,’ and she smiled, ‘I do have to tell you, your mission is not yet quite complete.’

‘Ma’am?’ Syn came upright, her lounging arrogance lost. ‘Is there some other task that you would like me to perform?’

Amused by the faint loss of poise, she said, ‘Of course.’

For the first time since the mission had begun, the assassin looked unsettled.

‘I need someone to carry the book for me,’ the inquisitor said, leaning down to pick up the incinerator. ‘Away from the Enemy and to the safety of the shuttle. And, with my retinue gone, this is the last part of your mission. One might call it a contingency.’ Her smile still in place, the inquisitor twitched her weapon at the rusting box. ‘Pick that up, would you? And if I were you, I wouldn’t make any mistakes. It’s a long walk, and I’d really hate anything to happen to it.’

THE TEAR OF SELEVIA

Mike Brooks

My lord, the following report takes the form of a sequence of excerpts detailing the pursuit of a semi-mythical relic of xenos origin by an Inquisitorial agent. The development of this endeavour proves intriguing in the extreme (heretical implications aside), and I believe it may form part of a wider mystery. You may of course draw your own conclusions, but it seems to me that the so-called Tear of Selevia is a key to a greater understanding of Mankind’s galaxy; knowledge that could prove dangerous in the wrong hands. I would advise my lord to keep a watchful eye on this particular agent, as her rise to prominence seems assured.

The emporium is rich, and not just in content. Its wares of glistening jewels and glimmering precious metals are valuable, to be sure, but it is their surroundings that give the sense of opulence. The goods are not stretched out on bare display boards of grey plastek, like cadavers on a mortuarium slab: they rest on plush cushions, like lovers in a boudoir, held in display cases carved from rich wood that would have once been scented, but which have now lost their aroma to time. Whole downhive families on this planet of Ranistat could be bought for the price of one of these pieces. The woman is finely dressed, as any customer would be, although her clothes are less extravagant than the local fashion. Her short, dark hair is shaved in a pattern that reveals the dark skin beneath, and her eyes take in the wares with a silent evaluation that appears to find them lacking in some manner.

‘May I help you, milady?’ the shopkeeper asks, for she gives the impression of someone who is searching for something specific, and that can be a most profitable sort of customer. She turns towards him and smiles, which goes some way towards lessening the impact of her unwavering gaze.

‘You have many fine pieces here,’ she says politely.

‘You are most gracious to say so,’ replies the shopkeeper humbly. His name is Marrek, and he has long ago learned the value of humility when dealing with the gentry. A shadow moves outside the shop’s door: a hulk of a man with a bionic right arm, his face scarred by burns. He came here with the woman, but did not enter. Marrek notices these things.

‘They are all new?’

‘Indeed, my lady,’ Marrek says with a smile, which fades slightly as her mouth pouts a little. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘I am… I suppose you could say that I’m running an errand,’ the woman says, with a slightly embarrassed smile, and Marrek finds himself wondering who this woman might answer to. Her age is hard for him to determine, but while she’s not old, she certainly can’t be young. And her manner! This is not someone who gives the impression of taking instruction.

‘I’m looking for a piece with history, if you understand me?’ the woman continues, and Marrek nods, because he does indeed.

‘If you would follow me, milady?’

He activates his security servitor, who will inform anyone who enters that he is temporarily indisposed – not to mention prevent them from making off with any of the goods – and leads her through a curtain into a back room. This is smaller and less brightly lit, but the sense of age and wealth is, if anything, more tangible.

‘I have some few pieces here that might serve,’ Marrek says casually, touching a button. The smooth whirr of machinery brings perhaps a dozen items of jewellery into view, rising on small plinths, or revealed by the opening of clamshell doors. The impression of secrecy is nearly as important to such a sale as the quality of the goods themselves. ‘All from one noble family or another, down on their luck and forced to sell, for a variety of reasons.’

Some rich folk like to wear the former glories of others. Perhaps they wish to claim a history that isn’t their own; perhaps they want to flaunt how they haven’t succumbed to the tragedy of their former peers; perhaps, in some cases, they even mock a rival they’ve brought low, by possessing their former property.

Marrek doesn’t care. It all makes him money.

‘This has a good air to it,’ the woman says, hooking her finger under a ruby as large as her fingernail – the centrepiece of a finely worked bracelet. She looks at Marrek. ‘I believe this might serve.’

‘Milady has excellent taste,’ Marrek says, an automatic response. It is a good piece though. Opulent, but not gaudy.

‘I assume it’s not cursed,’ the woman says, with a small chuckle to indicate that she’s joking, and is aware that it’s not a particularly good joke.

‘Oh no, milady!’ Marrek says, with a laugh of his own. ‘You’d have to go to Selevia for such a thing!’ He reaches out to pick up the bracelet and attach it around the woman’s wrist, so she can try the fit.

‘Selevia?’ the woman asks. Her tone is only mildly curious, but Marrek meets her eyes for a moment, and abruptly feels as though the temperature has dropped by a degree or two.

‘Oh, I meant nothing by the comment, milady,’ he stammers. Is she from Selevia? Has he just offended a customer, lost a potential sale? ‘There are tales of a cursed necklace from there, that’s all. Not that I believe in such superstition, of course,’ he adds hastily. ‘I’m sure it’s just a tale.’ He proffers the bracelet. ‘May I?’

‘Please do,’ she replies, and smiles again, and the misunderstanding is past.

‘So, tell me of our destination, Master Trellavyn,’ the woman says, casually scanning her cards. She is sitting at a table in the master’s lounge, with a half-full glass of amasec at her right hand and a stack of coins at her left. Danid Trellavyn is not the captain of the Emperor’s Smile – she is hardwired into the bridge, from where she controls all the ship’s processes – but he is the master: he owns the ship, and dictates where it will fly and what cargo or passengers it will take. He rarely invites outsiders into his personal lounge, but the woman opposite him is possessed of a manner that greatly intrigues him. Master Trellavyn is less taken by the man with her, a small fellow named Kantid with the personality of engine grease, but the woman made it clear that an invitation to her was automatically extended to him. Still, the man has turned out to be shocking at cards.

‘Selevia, Mamzel Dollane? It’s a newly claimed Imperial system,’ Trellavyn says, rubbing his chin as he looks at his own hand and tries to work out the probabilities of the right cards coming up. ‘I say newly claimed – a matter of a couple of centuries, nothing more.’

‘Lovely worlds they are too, as planets go,’ says Nator, his master-of-arms. ‘I wouldn’t trade my berth on the Smile for one of them, but they’re green and fertile. It was a great victory to take them from those xenos bastards. Pardon my language, mamzel,’ he adds a moment later, but the woman waves it away with a smile.

‘Please, sir, I’ve heard far worse.’ She drums her fingers on the table, and places three fifty-throne chits into the middle of the table. ‘Xenos, you said?’

‘Aye, the aeldari,’ Trellavyn replies. He casts a glance at Kantid, who makes a face and places his cards face down, folding the hand: probably a wise decision, given his run so far.

‘Aeldari?’ The woman’s eyes are wide and watchful.

‘Motherless void-scum, every one of them,’ Nator says forcefully. Trellavyn makes a decision and matches the woman’s bet. Perhaps her eagerness to hear more will distract her. ‘They’re generally pirates, picking off small freighter craft and the like – nothing the size of the Smile, you’ve no need to worry there, milady – but as the tale goes, they made quite a stand in the Selevia System: pitched battles on the planets, the lot.’

‘And the Astra Militarum rolled right over them,’ Trellavyn chuckles. ‘You’re up, Nator.’

‘Hmm? Oh, sorry.’ Nator pushes his own money in without hesitation. ‘Tell me though, mamzel, how is it that you are travelling to Selevia, yet know little of it?’

Trellavyn looks at his cards. He’s interested to hear this too, although he has better manners than to let on. One of the benefits of playing cards with Nator is that he will generally ask whatever questions he pleases, meaning that the master of the Emperor’s Smile has no need to.

‘I don’t travel the galaxy solely on my own whims, gentlemen,’ the woman replies with a smile. ‘I go where I must, sometimes at the behest of others. Besides, all too often the official accounts of a system turn out to be somewhat at odds with the experiences of those who’ve actually been there.’ Nator turns over the next card. ‘Ah. Well, in that case…’ She pushes in another three fifty-throne coins.

‘And what is your business, if I may be so bold as to ask?’ Nator enquires. Trellavyn matches the woman’s bet, but doesn’t raise her. She’s played well so far, and he’s cautious about being drawn in. Nator matches them both.

‘Master Trellavyn, did you invite me here just to have your officer interrogate me?’ the woman says lightly. She sips her drink as Nator turns over the last two cards, and Trellavyn works to conceal his eagerness. His hand is not unbeatable now, but it is certainly strong.

‘Of course not, mamzel,’ he says soothingly, and shoots Nator a glance. He’s curious, but he’s not so curious that he wants to risk this woman taking offence and abandoning the game. The Imperium is a massive and varied beast, and there are any number of things she could be doing aboard his ship, many of them entirely legitimate. He’s not convinced that her real name is Mamzel Dollane, but it’s rather more fun to try to figure her out himself, in the week or so they’ll be in the warp on the way to their destination. Besides, he has a record of her documentation and it all checks out as valid; he can provide the scans to the authorities, should he ever be questioned about who she was, and why he let her onto his ship.

‘So, Master Trellavyn,’ she says as they go through the final round of betting. ‘Have you ever had any encounters with these… aeldari?’

For a moment, he’s tempted to make something up. Something that sounds dashing and adventurous: repelling a boarding action against bloodthirsty reavers, perhaps, or taking one of their ships down with a well-placed volley from the Smile’s guns. However, he reconsiders without knowing exactly why. He tells himself that he’s not trying to impress her, and he’s certainly not flirting with her – he just finds her intriguing. Perhaps there’s something else at work though, some instinct of which he’s not even aware: the sort of subconscious perceptiveness that can make all the difference between success and failure for an independent captain who traverses the void.

The truth is best, here.

‘Once only, mamzel, and that at a great distance,’ he says soberly. ‘We caught a glimpse of one of their vessels on the ship’s sensors, a decade or so back. It was lurking a long way out in the Selevia System, near a large asteroid. We kept to our own course, and lost all sign of it shortly after. That’s the only time I’ve seen any of them, and I can’t say as I’m disappointed.’

She nods, as though that was the response she expected. The three of them turn their cards over, one at a time.

‘Well,’ Nator says happily, scooping up the pot, ‘the Emperor smiles on me today!’

‘Excuse me, goodsire?’

The woman is dressed conservatively, but well. Wetan Gurril, second under-archivist of Roka City’s reference chambers, the largest on all of Selevia Prime, looks up from the texts he’s organising. He smiles at her out of habit, although he has no wish to be interrupted. ‘Yes, mamzel?’

‘I’ve been looking into Selevia’s history,’ the woman says, ‘and I would like to ask you a few questions about it.’

‘I’m afraid my tasks are keeping me occupied at the moment,’ Wetan replies. He tries the sort of apologetic, put-upon smile that usually makes users of the archives apologise for bothering him, and go back to bothering him in a different way by disordering his system as they search for whatever it is they want.

The smile bounces off the woman, as though he has professed himself immediately willing and ready to help. She steps forward with a data-slate in her hand, and taps it to bring up a hololith of a tall, richly dressed lady. Wetan notices a flash of crimson at her right wrist, and nearly gasps in surprise when he sees the bracelet of precious stones she wears there. She is bold, to openly display such wealth!

‘This is the first governor of Selevia, is that correct?’

The hololith’s own caption is capable of telling her as much. Wetan has no time for the sort of person who looks with their mouth and not with their eyes. ‘Yes, mamzel. I’m sorry, but I really can’t–’

‘Goodsire, please,’ the woman says, laying two fingers on his forearm. ‘This will not take much of your time.’

Wetan stiffens reflexively. It’s not that he’s unused to being touched, for the data stacks are narrow: it is often impossible not to bump or jostle another person when navigating their pathways, particularly those of his colleagues who have a tendency to be engrossed in their work to the exclusion of all awareness. Nor is it the tone of her voice, which is level and pleasant, and not remotely threatening. Her expression is calm, and she is neither tall nor broad enough to be physically intimidating.

And yet…

There is something about her, when taken altogether, which suggests to Wetan Gurril that it is not in his best interests to refuse this woman. Perhaps it is simply the air of expectation about her, the apparently unwavering belief that he will do what she requests. Or perhaps it’s something else. If he, as a purely theoretical exercise, tries to imagine what will happen should he refuse her, his mind pulls back from envisaging the outcome. On some level, Wetan Gurril understands that he should keep this interaction brief, and the person standing next to him in good temper.

‘Very well,’ he says. ‘If it will not take long. How may I assist?’

‘The position of governor here is hereditary, is that true?’ the woman asks, and Wetan nods.

‘It is indeed. However, of course, our current governor is not descended from the original, Sirlene Rask. Her family died, some twenty years after her official appointment.’

‘An accident?’ the woman asks, her dark eyes intent.

‘I…’ Wetan pauses. ‘It is unclear. Governor Rask’s manse burned down, killing her and her immediate kin. There was no indication of it being an act of violence committed by enemies, and according to records from the time, the governor’s behaviour had been growing erratic for at least a year beforehand. The decisions that she made on behalf of the system still appeared sound, but accounts suggest that she was acting oddly in person. Not long before the fire, for example, she reportedly fired all of her household staff, accusing them of tormenting her with constant whispering.’

The woman nods. ‘I see. So speculation is that she may have set the fire herself?’

Wetan winces. ‘It is speculation only, mamzel, and not a rumour that is repeated in polite company, if you take my meaning. Governor Rask was well liked, and was symbolic of our system’s status as newly claimed by the Imperium. The tragedy is generally regarded as an accident, but we archivists do not know that for sure – hence I mention the other details, for the sake of completeness.’

‘What of this?’ the woman asks, pointing. The presence of her finger disrupts the hololith slightly, but the object of her enquiry is unmistakeable. She is pointing to the necklace around Governor Rask’s neck, and more specifically, to the large, oval, midnight-blue gem that serves as the centrepiece.

‘That?’ Wetan sighs. ‘Ah, that is the famous Tear of Selevia. A gem taken from the corpse of the xenos commander who led their foul and doomed resistance against the glorious forces of the Astra Militarum. It was a witch of uncommon power, according to the records. Colonel Greeves took the stone from the body and presented it to the newly appointed governor on the day of her inauguration, mounted as you see here.’ He lowers his voice slightly, despite the fact that there is no one around. ‘There is conjecture that the colonel and the governor were perhaps somewhat closer than would be entirely fitting for their respective offices, but that is baseless hearsay which, again, I mention only for the sake of completeness.’

‘The governor wore it often?’ the woman asks.

‘So much that it practically became her chain of office,’ Wetan acknowledges. ‘Hence, perhaps, the prevalence of such scurrilous rumours.’

‘And the necklace was lost in the fire?’

‘No, no it was not,’ Wetan corrects her. ‘It survived, but the next governor to be appointed – the grandfather of the Honourable Dovan Mabb, who rules today – said that he would not wear it. Indeed, he… Well, he did not go so far as to say that he considered it cursed, as such, but he obviously thought it ill-omened. It remained displayed in a crystal cabinet, a stasis one at that, and none were permitted to touch it.’

‘And where is it now?’ the woman asks. ‘Still on display?’

‘No, mamzel, the piece was stolen from the governor’s manse some ten years ago, by parties unknown,’ Wetan informs her. ‘It has not been seen since.’

She nods slowly. ‘It is a distinctive stone. I imagine, from your explanation, that many citizens of Selevia would recognise it if they saw it?’

‘Indeed, mamzel,’ Wetan agrees. He grimaces. ‘I do not wish to debase myself with speculation, but there are certainly those who think that it must be in the private collection of some notary on this planet. The sort of person’ – he waggles his eyebrows to indicate his disapproval of the degenerate elite – ‘who considers their own gratification more important than history.’

The woman smiles thinly. ‘I see. Thank you for your time, Archivist Gurril.’ She turns away, heading back the way she came.

‘You’re welcome, mamzel,’ Wetan mutters reflexively, and returns to his interrupted work.

It is several more seconds before he realises that he never introduced himself, and that neither his robes, nor the badge that identifies him as a registered archivist, display his name.

The air is thick with lho-smoke, but the plerry liquor in Jezaman Do’Ena’s glass is still tart enough to cut through the coating it’s given his tongue. He doesn’t look up when the door opens; best not to make the customer think he’s too interested.

‘Heg says ye’re looking ta sell,’ he says, his tone bored. Heg said the goods looked valuable, but Heg isn’t an expert. He’s just on the door to weed out the time-wasters. No one gets through to Jezaman’s sanctum unless Heg thinks they have something that might interest his boss.

A bracelet clatters down onto the counter in front of him, and Jezaman looks up in surprise. The woman in front of him is wearing heavy boots, thick, durable leggings stained with what is probably oil, and a sleeveless vest that looks like grox-hide. She has a red bandana tied above her left bicep and heavy bracers on each forearm, and her throat is wrapped in a studded collar. He can’t see her eyes: they’re hidden behind photo-goggles. It’s not a gang uniform – not one Jezaman knows of, anyway – but she certainly wouldn’t look out of place in some of their hang-outs.

‘Heg is correct,’ she says, her smile showing white teeth in a dark face. Jezaman eyes her for a moment longer, then inspects the bracelet.

Heg was right: it is valuable, Jezaman can tell that immediately. Finely worked, and set with good-sized rubies. The sort of piece you’re not likely to see outside of society’s finer circles.

‘Six hunnerd thrones,’ he says, finishing his cursory examination.

‘Twelve hundred,’ the woman replies, immediately. Jezaman looks up at her again, because she didn’t even have time to consider his offer. Twelve hundred might be a fairer price, if he were interested in being fair, but either she knows a lot about the going rate for fenced jewellery – including the costs of bribes, and of getting such a piece into the hands of those who could afford it, who certainly don’t come to places like Jezaman’s themselves – or there’s something else going on here.

‘Ye seem mighty certain of yeself,’ he says. ‘Ye’re looking to sell, I might be interested in buying.’ He points back and forth between her and himself. ‘We’re looking ta come ta an agreement, here. Ye don’t just get ta dictate.’

The woman smirks. ‘You don’t think we can come to an agreement at twelve hundred?’ Her accent isn’t from nearby – not the Rustside, or Torran’s Downs, or Kelvian Gulch. In fact, Jezaman’s fairly sure it’s not Selevian at all. He taps one fingernail on the counter.

‘Alright then, miss, ye explain ta me why ye think it’s worth twelve hunnerd.’

She turns away from him and looks around. This isn’t a gleaming up-spire emporium of luxury goods; this is a grimy hole in a grimy quarter of a grimy city. The goods Jezaman has collected, through various means, are arrayed with little care or attention. You want to find something, you can damn well look for it yourself.

‘Spoke to someone who called himself the Prince o’ Knives,’ the woman says conversationally. ‘Said he knows you, has done business with you before.’

‘Kavin Dorra?’ Jezaman snorts. ‘Aye, I know him. Jumped-up little grox-fondler, and far too fond of his blades. What of him?’ Knife-happy though he is, Dorra is a good source of items, so long as you don’t ask about where they came from, or mind washing off the occasional bloodstain. Jezaman isn’t bothered by either, although he uses the latter to push the price down when he can.

‘He said to never take your first offer,’ the woman says, picking a ring out and examining it. ‘He said to always double it, that’s closer to fair.’

‘Prince o’ Knives needs ta mind his own blasted business,’ Jezaman growls. ‘I don’t know ye, girl, I don’t know what trouble this piece might bring me, and I’m none too fond of ye attitude, neither. Ye can have nine hunnerd for it, and if ye’re wanting more, ye can take it out of Dorra’s hide yeself.’

‘He also told me,’ the woman says, slipping the ring onto her finger, ‘that you’ll tell me what I want to know.’

Jezaman’s eyes narrow, and one finger strays towards the rune under the counter that will call Heg in. It’ll make a mess, but it might be necessary. ‘Not likely. I’ve already said I don’t like ye attitude.’

‘He did say that you’re all bluff and bluster up front,’ the woman continues, turning back towards him, ‘but that if you get leaned on hard, you’ll give.’ She places both her hands on the counter. ‘Are you going to make me lean on you, Jezaman?’

He presses the button. It will only be a few seconds before Heg arrives. ‘And what else did he say, miss?’

The woman shrugs. ‘Most of the rest was variations on “Oh God-Emperor, no!” and a lot of screaming.’

Jezaman tries to swallow, but there’s suddenly no moisture in his throat. Kavin Dorra’s a jumped-up little grox-fondler, sure enough, but he’s got a high opinion of himself, and some very sharp blades. You don’t go around talking about him like that unless you’re a fool, or you’re completely unconcerned about how he’ll react when he finds out – perhaps because there’s not much left of him to find out.

Then again, this woman is a fool, because Heg will be here in a moment, and…

The seconds tick by for Jezaman Do’Ena, under the inscrutable gaze of those goggles, and Heg doesn’t arrive in any of them. What’s keeping the useless great lump?

‘Were you expecting someone?’ the woman asks, and Throne of Terra, she knows! She can’t be alone; she must have associates outside, associates who were able to overpower Heg without making any noise Jezaman could hear…

The woman smiles at his dawning terror. ‘I usually prefer to be more circumspect than this, but I’m on a schedule, and… What was your phrase? I’m none too fond of your attitude. Tell me about the Tear of Selevia.’

Jezaman backs up until he hits the wall. It’s nowhere near as far away from her as he’d like. ‘I’ve never seen it! I never saw it, it never came through me! I’ve already told the Rustmaster that, ye can tell him–’

‘I’m not a lackey for your local crime boss!’ the woman snaps, leaning forwards over the counter.

Jezaman blinks. ‘Ye’re not?’

‘No, I represent someone significantly worse.’ The woman shakes her head. ‘Believe me, you don’t want her here. You should be grateful you’ve got me.’ She sighs. ‘But she needs results, and I need to provide them. Let’s start again, shall we? You buy and sell stolen jewellery. The Tear of Selevia was stolen ten years ago. It’s reasonable for me to assume that you might have heard some rumours about it.’

The woman clenches her right fist, and a short, glowing, edged weapon extends out from the bracer. Jezaman recognises it: a Desoleum powerblade. It can cut through his flesh and bone as easily as he’d trail his fingers through water.

‘So why don’t you think very hard,’ the woman says, raising her arm so that the glowing field of the powerblade is reflected in her goggles, ‘and see if you can help me out without ending up like the Prince o’ Knives…’

The woman is walking down a street. She is not hurrying as such, but nor is she dawdling. The star of Selevia is below the horizon now, the lumens here are neither plentiful nor well-maintained, the pools of shadow are dark and deep, and other pedestrians are rare. This is not a place to which one goes; one merely passes through on one’s way somewhere else. The security pict-feeds don’t cover it, and the local proctors don’t patrol it.

The throb of a groundcar’s engine grows behind her. It veers towards her without warning, but she steps aside just before it would have hit her, and having missed her, it screeches to a halt some twenty yards farther on. It immediately disgorges four people, who bring the tools of their trade out with them: a length of heavy chain; a long-bladed knife; a wrench the length of an arm; a heavy-barrelled handgun.

‘Ye’ve been asking a lot of questions about a necklace,’ one of them says, aiming her gun. She’s little more than a silhouette, backlit as she is by the next, distant lumen.

The woman smiles. ‘Well, I have an inquisitive nature.’ Her hands are out of sight beneath the rain cape she wears, and she continues to walk towards them. ‘Why don’t you tell me who it is that’s so upset by my questions?’

‘Ye’re too inquisitive,’ the other woman replies, and pulls the trigger.

She’s not aiming to kill, not outright. A shot to the belly will disable, while still leaving the victim able to answer questions, such as who they are, and who they’re working for. Indeed, that manner of wound provides an obvious pressure point to emphasise the importance of such queries.

The only trouble is, just like when she sidestepped the groundcar’s attempt to ram her, the woman is no longer in the slug’s flight path.

She hasn’t teleported, or disappeared, or anything so arcane; she simply began to dodge before her assailant had even consciously decided to fire, as though she were forewarned. She rolls, and comes up to one knee with a compact, blocky pistol in her left hand, and the glowing length of a Desoleum powerblade extending from her right wrist.

The pistol speaks once, twice, thrice, before the other woman can correct her aim and fire again. Three bolts of brilliant, blue-white energy strike home, and the air is suddenly redolent with the scent of crisped human flesh as gun-wielder, chain-swinger and wrench-hefter are incinerated before they can even scream. The last would-be attacker, a man called Taynar, who had the long-bladed knife, shields himself with his arms uselessly, and somewhat comically.

The woman rises back to her feet, keeping her gun trained on him. She doesn’t need to spend much effort to do so, for it’s a t’au pulse pistol, gyro-stabilised. Such a weapon would be worth a fortune on the Selevian black market; it would also confer a death sentence on anyone found in possession of it – at least, if the person doing the finding knew what it was – for it is outlawed xenos technology.

Taynar doesn’t know what it is. He hasn’t even heard of the t’au. All he knows is that his night has just got an awful lot worse.

‘Drop the knife,’ the woman says flatly, walking towards him. He obeys instantly. ‘Who sent you?’

He stares at her without speaking, because he knows that the death that will seek him out if he does so will be far longer and more painful – at least cumulatively – than an instant of searing, blue-white agony.

The woman sighs. ‘This is what I object to in low-level thugs. You’re all so convinced that the local power is the scariest thing in the galaxy. You have no imagination, and that ends up inconveniencing both of us.’

Another groundcar is approaching now, and Taynar’s eyes flicker towards it with desperate hope. Perhaps his master sent more people; perhaps it’s merely a passer-by who will distract this woman who’s turned the tables on him. Perhaps, and for the first time in his life he finds he’s hoping for this to be true, it’s the proctors.

The second groundcar stops, and two men get out: a big man with a bionic arm and burn scars, and a smaller man who looks like the embodiment of shiftiness. Taynar doesn’t recognise either of them. Even worse, the woman clearly does.

‘You took your time,’ she remarks.

‘You didn’t,’ the big man grunts, looking pointedly at the dead bodies. He catches sight of the gun in her hand and hisses through his teeth. ‘Emperor’s blood, Nero! Don’t tell me you’re using that damned thing again!’

‘It’s effective,’ Alyss Nero tells him. ‘Fine, you cover him then, Fell. Kantid, go over the vehicle.’

The smaller man, Avos Kantid, picks his way over the corpses and begins to inspect the groundcar’s interior. Aberfell Duscaris draws a heavy Hecuter autopistol from his shoulder rig and aims it at Taynar, who makes sure not to move even once Nero puts her own gun away. The Hecuter doesn’t have quite the punch of the bolter-flamer that Fell used to carry, but that would be rather less subtle; and besides, he lost his taste for fire after the events on Vorlese that saw him need a new face.

‘I told you they’d come for me,’ Nero says, pulling out a small container from a pocket of her rain cloak.

‘You do have precognitive abilities,’ Fell points out.

‘Not that far ahead,’ Nero corrects him. ‘Enough to avoid getting run over or shot. Most of the time.’ She steps closer to Taynar, making sure to keep out of Fell’s line of fire. She holds up the container. ‘Do you know what this is?’

Taynar looks at it, and nearly retches. The container has one small lumen active in it, which is just enough to illuminate the thin wriggling shape held behind the plasglass cover.

‘You know about Sinophian boreworms, then?’ Nero asks softly. ‘So you know what will happen if I let it get inside your body?’

Taynar is nearly hyperventilating now. He knows. He knows very well.

‘You’ve changed, Nero,’ Fell says, and he doesn’t bother to hide the disapproval in his voice.

‘You haven’t,’ Nero replies, without looking away from Taynar. ‘Which is why I’m leading this investigation.’ She turns her attention back to Taynar. ‘I suggest you tell me who you work for. Not just whoever told you to come here tonight – the one at the top. And I know you’re scared, but if you give me the name, and if I believe you, then you won’t have to worry about them taking revenge. They, on the other hand, will have a lot to worry about.’

Taynar swallows.

‘I’ll even overlook you trying to kill me,’ Nero adds. ‘After all, you weren’t driving, and you didn’t take the shot. And there’s no way you could have known that I’m an agent of the Emperor’s Inquisition, is there?’

The…

The Emperor’s…

‘He’s wet himself now,’ Fell grunts. ‘You could have led with that, and left the creature out of it.’

Taynar stammers out a name as he sinks to his knees, his legs no longer able to support him. It’s the truth, to the best of his knowledge.

‘Thank you,’ Alyss Nero says. She tucks the boreworm container back into her cloak. ‘Run along now. Keep your head down and your mouth shut for a couple of days, and you’ll be fine.’

Taynar runs. Wobbly legs notwithstanding, he runs like he’s never run before.

The private estate of Trademaster Janov Keele covers the same area of land as any one of the smaller districts of Roka City, and boasts verdant vistas that would be unthinkable on most Imperial worlds. Unlike the dirty, smog-stained streets of Selevia Prime’s capital, it is a beautiful green affair of rolling grassy hills and artfully tended woody copses.

At least until the proctors descend on it.

A dozen drop-ships land throughout the grounds, each one disgorging a ten-person unit of proctors in full carapace armour, armed with combat shotguns, shock mauls and suppression shields. Some of Keele’s personal security decide to resist this expression of the Emperor’s will, and they die for it. Potential hiding places or strongpoints are put to the torch, and so when the Aquila lander bears Alyss Nero, Aberfell Duscaris and Avos Kantid down to the surface, in the company of Arbitrator Mania Tyllun, thick plumes of dark smoke are rising up around them.

‘I hope your people aren’t being careless, arbitrator,’ Nero says tightly, as the landing ramp begins to lower. ‘This is not a time for wanton destruction.’

‘May I remind you, Interrogator Nero, that you told me the trademaster is a xenos sympathiser?’ Tyllun replies, her voice made gravelly and distorted by her helm’s vox-amplifier. ‘I respect the seal of the Inquisition, even when not borne by an inquisitor, but I see no reason to risk the safety of my forces, or give the heretic an opportunity to escape, through encouraging leniency and half-measures.’

‘And I understand that,’ Nero says, her tone polite but clipped. ‘However, we do not know exactly what manner of xenos artefacts the trademaster has collected.’

‘And why should that concern me?’ Tyllun demands.

‘Because sometimes,’ Fell growls, ‘if you do something foolish like, I dunno, set them on fire, they go bang.’ He widens his eyes to emphasise his point. ‘A lot of bang.’

‘Arbitrator Tyllun,’ Avos Kantid puts in, his tone smooth and conciliatory, ‘we do of course agree that no quarter should be shown to those who resist. However, we need to find and recover artefacts to ensure our suspicions are correct, and we need to take the trademaster alive to interrogate him about his sources, and any other deviants with whom he’s in contact. We request a precision elimination of hostile elements, rather than an…’ He sweeps a hand to encompass the raging inferno that was once a barn. ‘Indiscriminate approach. Otherwise the lady whom we serve will be most displeased.’

Tyllun’s expression cannot be seen, but if the slight nod of her helmet comes across as grudging, it is at least agreement. She speaks again in a low voice over her personal vox, relaying orders. Kantid exchanges a glance with Fell, two professionals satisfied with the outcome, but Alyss Nero’s gaze is fixed on the towers of Keele’s manse, which sits atop a slight rise in the ground.

She is so close, now. So close.

They advance over gravel paths through well-manicured lawns, behind a screen of dark-armoured proctors. Nero maintains her vigilance, but she never gets the swell of nausea that accompanies her precognition, and which might warn her of a sudden attack or trap. Even when the manse’s main doors are knocked in through concerted application of two man-portable assault rams, there is no danger.

Inside, standing in the lavishly decorated entrance hall, and well back from the ruin of his doors, is the man Nero instantly recognises as Trademaster Keele. His head is shaved on either side, the remainder of his hair slicked back, and the narrow beard dangling from his chin reaches his stomach. He regards them with eyes in which hatred and contempt war with fear and resignation. Men of authority always seek more of it, to lessen their chances of being brought low, but no one in the Imperium will ever have the authority to ignore the Inquisition, for they speak with the Emperor’s voice.

‘Trademaster Keele,’ Nero says, walking forward. ‘You are a collector of proscribed xenos artefacts, and a collaborator with heretics and criminals. You will–’

Nausea, twisting her stomach.

Nero flings herself to one side just as Keele raises his hand sharply, and something flies out of his sleeve. It misses her, just, and is snatched out of the air by Fell’s bionic hand, which crushes it.

Two dozen gun barrels snap up, ready to fire.

‘Wait! Don’t shoot!’ Nero shouts, putting herself between Keele and the guns. She turns back to the trademaster, in whose expression hatred and fear are now rather more obviously present. ‘A last spiteful move? You take one agent of the Inquisition with you, and are then gunned down before you can be interrogated fully?’ She snorts. ‘If you intended to take your own life, you should have done it before we walked in through your door. Seize him!’ she snaps, and four proctors hurry forward with magnacles. Keele doesn’t resist, but the glare he shoots her has little venom. He already knows that he has lost.

‘Thrashtail,’ Fell murmurs, coming forward and opening his hand to show her the squashed remains of the illegal, bioengineered weapon-creature. ‘That right there is enough to condemn him. What kind of person throws one of these at an Inquisitorial agent?’

‘Someone with so much to hide that he has no hope left, merely spite,’ Nero replies. Her stomach is tight, but with excitement and anticipation, not the nausea of her precognition. She turns to the proctors. ‘I want this manse taken apart, but carefully. Watch for traps, or anything that might be set to destroy the contents of a room, a cabinet, a chest. If you find something you do not immediately recognise, summon one of us.’ She snorts a laugh. ‘I don’t wish to sound like a character from a cheap holo-drama, but please believe me when I say that carelessness could lead to a fate worse than death.’

The proctors acknowledge her instructions. Nero thinks they’ll listen. They’ll be brutish intellects for the most part, broken down in training and put back together as tools to do the Imperium’s will without much in the way of individuality, but that’s not to say they’ll be without fear. They might not flinch from death in combat with the alien, should it be necessary, but they’ll be wary of xenos trickery.

As they should be.

‘Nero. We’ve found it.’

Kantid’s voice comes over her comm-bead, and Alyss Nero turns away from the small sphere of engraved metal she’s been studying. It doesn’t match up with anything she’s heard of in terms of alien artefacts, but there is so much they don’t know about the xenos, both those now extinct and those who still plague humanity. ‘Don’t touch it yet,’ she orders the three proctors who have accompanied her, as she hurries out of the door and down a corridor.

Janov Keele has a large personal collection of valuables, which he clearly liked to show off to privileged guests. Some are nothing more than human – old artwork, or a finger bone alleged to have belonged to a saint – while others are definitely alien in origin. Keele would have been damned many times over, even had he not tried to kill her.

But as Nero arrives alongside Avos Kantid, she sees the crowning glory of the collection.

The Tear of Selevia is not done justice by a hololithic image. It is a gem of surpassing beauty, midnight blue in colour, and with the faintest hint of swirling depths that should be impossible in a gem that size. The necklace in which it is set is masterfully worked, but no one would look twice at it compared to the jewel itself.

‘That is what I think it is, isn’t it?’ Kantid says in a low voice.

‘A spirit stone,’ Nero murmurs. And not just any spirit stone: judging by accounts, the spirit stone of a dead aeldari witch. Somewhere – somehow – in there, so far as Nero understands it, is the spirit of a powerful xenos psyker, slain by a warrior of the Imperium. And Governor Rask wore this around her neck for twenty years? No wonder her sanity appeared to fray.

‘Bring the stasis casket,’ Nero orders a nearby proctor. The first Governor Mabb might or might not have known the Tear’s true nature, but by accident or design, he’d hit upon the best way to store it. The proctor nods and turns to go, slipping past the approaching, bulky shape of Fell as she does so.

‘Look what I’ve found,’ Fell says, extending the hand of his bionic arm. Nero looks into his palm and sees several chunks of dark-grey crystal.

She narrows her eyes. ‘Are those…?’

‘Salludo shards,’ Fell confirms with a nod. He might be ex-Astra Militarum, and he might never have developed the intuition and initiative to ever have a prospect of becoming an inquisitor himself, but he’s observant, and far from unintelligent. ‘I thought the trail had gone cold on these.’

‘It had,’ Nero agrees, a smile tugging at her lips. They’ve achieved even greater success than she’d envisaged. Surely, surely she has one hand on her own rosette. ‘Oh, well done, Fell. This is excellent. Now we have an entirely new topic to discuss with Trademaster Keele.’

Fell nods, then steps closer to her and lowers his voice. Once upon a time, when she was not long out of the scholam, Alyss Nero might have been intimidated by someone this size standing this close to her. Those days are long gone. She’s seen aeldari death-dancers, killers who can walk through shadows, and all manner of horrors besides.

‘Are you still intent on going through with this?’ Fell asks quietly.

‘I am,’ Nero tells him. This is a cold, hard certainty in her core.

‘The boss won’t like it.’

Nero looks up at him. ‘You let me worry about Ngiri.’

The Emperor’s Smile hangs in the void. Selevia Prime is a pale, distant dot. Beyond it lies its star. Somewhere far beyond that, on the other side of the system’s orbital plane, are Selevia Secundus – a gas giant, with three moons that are nearly planet-sized in their own right – and Selevia Tertius, an icy, rocky world. There’s nothing out this way, apart from a few asteroids.

Danid Trellavyn clenches his fists and relaxes them, again and again. He tells himself that it’s a way to dispel the tension in his body, but it’s not doing anything.

He should have known that Mamzel Dollane was trouble. He should have found himself a cargo more quickly, and left Selevia sooner. This time she used a different name, and showed him an insignia that made his blood turn to ice.

She’s not an inquisitor, and she doesn’t claim to be. Still, it’s clear who she works for, and she previously mentioned going places at the behest of others. That would be an inquisitor, Trellavyn suspects, and he has no intention of being tracked down to ask why he’s refused to help their subordinate.

All the same, what he’s been asked to do goes against every instinct he has, and most of his morality.

‘Anything?’ he asks the auspex officer, who shakes her head.

‘No, master, we’re alone.’

‘Comms?’ he calls.

‘Nothing, master, just background noise and… Wait.’

His heart lurches. To his left, he sees Alyss Nero look towards them. She’s on his ship’s bridge. How could he stop her?

‘What?’ he asks, praying that it’s a ghost signal – some garbled, long-lost vox that’s been drifting through the blackness of space since broadcast.

‘We’re being hailed, master,’ the comms officer says firmly, definitely. He doesn’t have the fear in his voice that’s clawing at Trellavyn’s stomach, but then the comms officer doesn’t know who they’re waiting for.

‘Play it,’ Nero orders. The comms officer looks at Trellavyn, who flaps a hand to indicate that he should oblige.

A voice slides over the bridge’s speakers. It is smooth, but smooth in the manner of ice over a deep lake, and is about as warm and welcoming. It enunciates the syllables clearly and perfectly, perhaps more so than most humans Danid Trellavyn has ever met, but it’s immediately obvious that this language was never intended to pass through these vocal cords.

‘–ill not repeat myself again. Name yourself.’

Master Trellavyn opens his mouth, but Alyss Nero raises her hand and he pauses without a word having passed his lips. She clicks her fingers; the vox-officer is perceptive enough to open the channel in return.

‘My name is Alyssana Nero. To whom do I speak?’

‘That is no business of yours. Your vessel carries something of ours. We will have it from you.’

‘You will,’ Nero says, without hesitation. ‘In return, I ask for information.’

‘You are in no position to bargain.’

Trellavyn’s eyes stray towards the sensor read-outs. There is something there: flickering and unsteady, as though the auspexes can’t get a proper read on it, but it’s there. The graceful, swept-back shape of an aeldari vessel, far closer than he’s seen one before, and far closer than he’d like. He swallows. They really are in no position to bargain. Trellavyn isn’t familiar with the different types of aeldari craft, but he has to believe that this is a warship of a sort, and the Emperor’s Smile is a merchant trader with few guns.

‘I am always in a position to bargain,’ Nero replies. ‘The question is, are you in a position to listen? You could shoot this ship out from under me, but it would take you a long time to find what you wish afterwards. Perhaps that means nothing to you, long-lived as you are, but you have no guarantee that I would not succeed in destroying it before I died. I think I know what this object means to you, and I think you wish to avoid that, above all else.’

‘That would be a grave mistake.’

‘A human who makes mistakes? I’m sure you’re used to the notion.’ Nero sighs. ‘Help me to avoid making a mistake, by giving me what I want. Information, in exchange for your property.’

Some sliver of emotion slides into the voice. Perhaps it’s humour? If so, it is barbed.

‘What information do you wish?’

‘I can discuss that in person,’ Nero replies. ‘Send whatever serves you as a shuttle. The docking bay of this ship will be open to you. Come with another, if you wish. I will have one companion. Send any more, and I will destroy that which you seek.’

There is a pause, during which Danid Trellavyn contemplates refusing to allow his ship to be boarded by xenos, and comes up against not only the symbol of the Inquisition, but also the weapons of the ship out there in the void.

‘Very well, Alyssana Nero. We shall see if you are as treacherous as most of your kind.’

The docking bay is empty of shuttles, at least until the aeldari vessel passes through the ion field that keeps the atmosphere inside, and sets down. It’s a construction of sweeping curves and sharp points, as though it is a weapon in and of itself. The ramp descends, and two of the xenos walk down it.

They’re each over six feet tall, and willow-thin. Nero knows that both will be stronger than her: they’re probably stronger than Fell, for all the fact that he’s twice as wide as either of them. Their armour is dark grey with flashes of midnight blue, and their helms are crested with high tails of what is either hair, or thin, hairlike fabric. Both have long blades scabbarded on their left hip, and a holstered pistol on their right. Their eye-lenses are reflective, and give them an insectoid look. Nero prefers that to being able to see their faces. This is not the first time she’s encountered an aeldari, but it is the first time she has approached one as anything other than an enemy.

The one in front pauses, perhaps ten feet from where she and Fell stand, and speaks.

‘Show us the stone.’

Nero brings the stasis casket out from behind her back. It is a small thing, resembling a cage such as that which might contain a tiny avian.

Aeldari are hard to read, especially with their helms on, but Nero detects a slight shift in their stances. This is indeed what they came for. Understandable, since they were apparently able to sense it in the first place.

One of them reaches out.

Nero draws her pulse pistol and aims it at the stone. Its energy bolts will do nothing with the casket active, but that’s why she’s got a finger on the controls.

The aeldari freeze. One of them hisses.

‘Just so we are clear,’ Nero says, ‘I could destroy this before you can reach me.’

She holds the blank gaze of their helmets for a second or two, then lowers her pistol and pushes the casket. The anti-gravity motors in its base keep it a steady four feet off the ground as it glides towards the xenos. The one in front plucks it out of the air, almost hungrily.

‘We could have had a stand-off about whether you got the stone first, or I got my information first,’ Nero tells them. Her mouth is dry with a mixture of apprehension and eagerness. ‘You may see this as a gesture of goodwill – just like bringing the stone here in the first place, away from the defences of our worlds.’

‘Your worlds?’ the aeldari at the back retorts, the edges of its words slicing through the air.

Nero shrugs. ‘I speak in practicalities, not abstracts. Had you the ability to retake the stone before now then I believe you would have done so, but Selevia Prime is fortified by the Imperium, and so you dared not.’

The frontmost xenos looks away from the spirit stone to fix the gaze of its helm on her once more. ‘Your price was information, but you have already discarded your asset.’

‘Our people have warred before,’ Nero replies. ‘They will again. One needs no great foresight to know that. But we need not always stand in conflict. On occasion, as now, we may be able to assist each other. Perhaps we should take those opportunities, because there are certainly those who would gladly see both our peoples burn.’

The aeldari regards her for a few long seconds. Then it speaks.

‘Your words are not wisdom. But neither are they utter foolishness. Speak your question. I may answer, or I may not.’

Nero composes herself. Breathes. This could be her first proper lead on a mess of rumours and half-truths that she and her mistress have been encountering for the best part of a decade. Inquisitor Ngiri would never have turned to the aeldari for answers, but Alyss Nero has. Now she will find out if that choice was worth it.

‘I need to know about something called, in my tongue, the Pillar of Dreams.’

The aeldari do not move, but Nero’s ears can just make out soft sibilant sounds coming from behind their masks. Are they conversing quietly in their own language?

‘You know its location?’ the rearmost one asks, after a few seconds.

Nero shakes her head. ‘Not exactly, but I have been hearing rumours about it. I know it is important in some way, and I have some leads on it, but I need to know what it is.’

‘Dangerous,’ says the one at the front. ‘Very dangerous.’

‘But what does it look like?’ Nero demands. ‘What does it do? The writings I’ve found link it to your people in some manner, but nothing gives me a description!’ She grinds her teeth in frustration. The aeldari may be able to sense spirit stones, and Emperor knows what else, but Nero has to rely on her eyes.

She forces herself to be patient. She hopes the xenos will think her reckless and overambitious. She hopes they will give her the information she needs to find this artefact – perhaps with the intention of then taking it from her, but she will be ready for any such betrayal.

‘It was not created by us,’ the frontmost xenos says firmly. ‘It is a twisted thing, which flays the minds of those that would use it.’

Nero frowns. ‘So it should be destroyed?’

‘Most certainly.’

Nero suppresses her smile. She’ll be the judge of that, once she’s determined the Pillar’s actual function, rather than what these creatures want her to think. ‘I will ask you one more time. What is it?’

Once more the aeldari exchange those soft sounds. Then the rearmost steps forward and raises its hands.

‘It is a column of what might appear to you to be stone, which stands a little taller than myself, wider at the top and the bottom…’

Alyss Nero listens with growing excitement. These aeldari clearly have an agenda with regard to the Pillar of Dreams, but sentient beings with an agenda can be predicted, and what can be predicted can be manipulated. Inquisitor Ngiri taught her that, but Nero’s mentor has become more reactive and puritanical as she’s aged.

Perhaps it’s time for a new approach…

TAINTED FAITH

Denny Flowers

The Ordo Xenos is known for producing many of the most radical inquisitors found in the Imperium – individuals with loose morals who employ proscribed technology and think nothing of colluding and cavorting with the very aliens their ordo purports to hunt. Inquisitor Ortis Atenbach is one such individual: a dangerous radical whose privileged background and ‘eccentricities’ have no doubt protected him from further scrutiny. This report concerns Atenbach’s investigation of an industrial mining complex, in which some kind of [REDACTED] cult had taken root. The troubling tale also reveals much about the unorthodox methods of Atenbach’s perfidious ordo.

The hunters watched from the shadows as the mine carts approached the refinery.

From a distance they could almost pass for human. But the larger of the two stood over seven feet tall, and the scarf wrapped loosely around its face could not fully conceal green-hued skin and an avian beak. The other was slighter, closer to the form of man. But he moved with an uncanny grace, and his eyes were too beautiful and terrible to belong to anything that lived a mortal span.

Still, neither could be seen by their quarry. Both were clad in cameleoline cloaks that melded with the darkness. Thus hidden, they watched as the miners dismounted their lumbering vehicles, anxious to unload their haul.

At the sight of it, the taller of the two hissed quietly.

‘You’ll reveal our position,’ the other murmured, his own voice sweet and sharp as poisoned wine.

‘They do not hear,’ the taller chirped. ‘Too focused on hollowing out their world.’

‘That is their way,’ the other said, and shrugged. ‘You have the scent?’

‘Yes. Their taint is everywhere.’

‘For now. They will be cleansed just like the others. Such a vile species.’

‘Atenbach might disagree.’

‘Then let him. I have no doubt he eavesdrops on our conversation even now.’

‘Uli is correct. I am indeed listening,’ a voice whispered from their vox-units.

‘And?’ Uli asked. ‘Do you disagree?’

‘Vile?’ Atenbach replied over the crackling vox. ‘To an outsider? There is no doubt. But consider for a moment our colleague Anqui Korgo.’

The taller figure tilted its head at the mention of its name.

‘They are of the species Krootis aviana, carnivores who extract characteristics from their prey’s genetic code and incorporate it into their own. To their victims they are a nightmare made flesh. But to their kin they are family and blood. Are they monsters?’

‘I am aware of our colleague’s cultural heritage,’ Uli replied. ‘We are not discussing the kroot. I was referring to something a little closer to your genome. What do you think of our targets?’

As they watched, the last of the miners entered the compound, sealing it behind them.

‘They are an aggressive and supremely adaptable species with limitless potential,’ Atenbach replied. ‘That is why they must be exterminated.’

As he spoke, dark figures crept towards the compound, their weapons glinting in the moonlight.

Overseer Karloss’ recaff steamed beside him, untouched. It was still too hot, just like the rest of the facility. He’d barely slept, awaking in the early hours bound in sodden bed sheets, like an insect caught in an arachnid’s web. For a moment he’d have sworn there was something in the room – a diminutive bundle of teeth and claws clad only in shadows. It scuttled from his sight as he lurched upright, leaving no sign of its passage.

He had not slept since. Not that he could let any of his colleagues know. Insomnia was a stage one symptom.

Karloss wiped the sweat from his glistening brow, fixing his gaze on the data-terminal, frowning at the incoming reports. On the surface all seemed well. Output exceeded expectations and projected tithes would easily surpass minimum requirements. He should have been proud: the ore was vital for the war effort, and productivity had never been better. As little as a month ago it had fallen so low there were whispers he would be stripped of his position, or even censured. And that was before the accident, when the miners had dug too deep, releasing ruby clouds of fungal spores that engulfed the whole facility. A terrible nausea had swept through the workforce in the days that followed, with agonising stomach cramps reducing his strongest workers to mewling creatures curled in foetal balls.

At first he had feared for the tithes. Then for their lives. The Officio Medicae had, for once, reacted swiftly to their pleas for help. Bloodspore was the name of the condition, and apparently sickness was merely the first symptom of the fungus multiplying within the body. Paranoia and psychosis would follow. Then death in about half of cases. But the medicae team had treatments that could alleviate the symptoms. They had assured him that, in time, his workers would recover.

‘Something troubling you, Karloss?’

He jumped, spinning in his chair, clutching the pendant he wore about his neck. Overseer Fenton stood in the doorway, forearm pressed to the frame, sipping from a chipped ceramic cup.

‘F-Fenton,’ Karloss stuttered, a tremor marring his voice. ‘I thought your shift didn’t begin for another six hours?’

‘It doesn’t. I wanted to make an early start,’ Fenton replied with a smile. There was something disconcerting about the expression – all Karloss could focus on was the gleaming teeth.

‘What are you working on anyway?’ Fenton continued, stepping through the doorway and bending his head to the data-terminal’s display. Karloss resisted the urge to wipe the screen. This man had been a colleague for years, even a friend at times. Mere weeks ago, they had been getting drunk on cheap amasec, their gallows humour getting them through the early stages of the disease, when there had seemed little hope. But he now found himself uneasy in the man’s company.

Paranoia. A stage two symptom.

Fenton studied the screen, Karloss watching him from the corner of his eye. His colleague seemed untroubled by the heat, his overalls neatly buttoned, no trace of sweat upon his freshly shaved head.

‘I see no issue,’ Fenton frowned, glancing to his colleague. Their faces were inches apart. ‘We are on target.’

‘Yes, but there are some inconsistencies in the data.’ Karloss shrugged, closing the display. ‘At least four Goliath rockgrinders are unaccounted for, and power usage in sub-level sixty-six is far in excess–’

‘Forgive me, but that doesn’t fall under your oversight,’ Fenton replied.

His nostrils wrinkled as he spoke. Was Fenton sniffing him? Karloss had not had time to visit the hygiene chamber before the shift. Surely the smell was not that notable?

‘Are you quite well, Karloss?’ Fenton continued, staring at him. ‘You seem… off.’

‘I’m perfectly well.’

‘Are you up to date with your treatment?’

‘Of course,’ Karloss lied.

‘Because you are sweating quite profusely,’ Fenton continued. ‘And I do not need to remind you that fever is a symptom of Bloodspore.’

‘That is– There is a temperature fluctuation. Look,’ Karloss replied, pointing to the thermoregulator. ‘Seven degrees above standard.’

‘Is it?’ Fenton shrugged. ‘I had not noticed.’

There was something off about his face. The eyes were too intense. When had he last blinked? It reminded Karloss of a vid he’d seen of a serpent feeding. Its prey did not even attempt to flee, the rat transfixed by the reptile’s gaze even as it closed for the kill.

Why did he suddenly feel like the rat?

‘On reflection, I have not yet received today’s treatment,’ Karloss replied, rising from the terminal. ‘Please excuse me.’

‘I shall accompany you–’

‘No need,’ Karloss replied, backing towards the door. ‘You review the heating logs. I know the way.’

Uli’s eyes were well accustomed to darkness. He could easily make out the trio of miners guarding the main entrance. Behind them, two additional sentries were positioned in watchtowers. They were his target.

His fingers crept to his bandolier and retrieved two crystal cylinders, each infused with an emerald-green payload, then inserted them into his rifle. At the edge of his vision, a shadow advanced silently towards the entrance. The gait seemed erratic, but synchronised perfectly with the passage of clouds across the twin moons. He permitted himself a tight smile. Beasts though they were, the kroot were skilled hunters, and Korgo knew when to keep their predatory instincts in check. The scarf was discarded now, the head-quills flattened.

Uli waited, the stock of his rifle pressed to his shoulder, the barrel low to avoid moonlight revealing his position. His gaze slid from his targets in the watchtowers to the advancing Korgo, his finger poised on the trigger.

There. The quills slowly stiffened.

Once. Twice.

On the third flare Korgo bounded forward, the movement almost comical but for the kroot’s speed and savage intent. At the same moment Uli brought his rifle around in a wide arc, squeezing off two shots without seeming to aim. Both sentries collapsed, the toxic payload slaying them as they stood. A pity; he would have preferred something with greater spectacle. His bandolier contained venoms that inflicted limb-snapping convulsions or converted synovial fluid into a potent bio-acid. Both provided a more entertaining display. But the risk of detection was too great.

His gaze darted back to the main entrance. Two of the guards were already dead, a hunting knife buried in one’s heart, the other’s neck cleanly broken. Korgo held the third by the throat, talons squeezing the life from it. Uli smiled as the creature clutched weakly at the towering kroot. Then the beak snapped forward, tearing open the guard’s throat. As the corpse fell he saw Korgo retch, spitting out a mouthful of flesh. Their expression was, as always, inscrutable, but the shiver running along their quills suggested frustration. It was a sentiment he shared: neither of them felt sated by the kill.

Uli tapped his vox-bead. ‘Entrance secure. Minimal resistance.’

‘Good work,’ Atenbach replied through the comms. ‘All entrances are now secure. No one is getting out.’

‘You are planning on a siege?’

‘No. The plan now is for Chroberg’s squad to take point. We need to seize the main control centre.’

‘They are noisy and messy,’ Uli warned as the soldiers advanced towards the entrance, the black-armoured figures reminiscent of a swarm of insects.

‘Perhaps,’ Atenbach replied. ‘But the time for subtlety has concluded.’

Karloss kept his head low. He did not want to engage with colleagues or risk drawing their gaze. But he stole the occasional glance. Nothing seemed suspicious. Most were occupied hauling the latest shipment, or busying themselves with their duties. A trio of whispering engineers fell silent at his approach. They turned, six eyes regarding him as one, like a desert spider spying its prey.

He shook his head. He knew two of the men. Gristen had been almost a protégé, and Hendis and he had played as children. Strange, he’d never noticed how similar they looked: their faces carrying echoes of the same bone structure, their eyes bearing identical expressions. Both seemed wary of him.

He tried to smile, to look inconspicuous. How could they just stand there like that, so calm and collected? He was roasting in his overalls, the mining fatigues clinging at his clammy flesh. Part of him wanted to tear clear the uniform and run naked from the refinery into the darkness beyond. He would not last long out there; the cold alone would kill him in minutes. But he would be free from the stifling heat. Free from their eyes.

Suicidal thoughts. Another stage two symptom.

On reflex, his fingers strayed to the sacred aquila pendant hanging about his neck. As always, its touch soothed him, a balm for the fears clawing at his psyche. His grandmother had gifted it to him, a reminder that faith in the God-Emperor was the only thing of true value. And she had been a paradigm of health, reaching an age of almost sixty cycles without a medicae’s scrutiny or pills. She always said it was His will who lived or died, that mankind’s efforts to alter this plan was blasphemous. Faith and prayer, that was the only medicine that mattered. And how he had prayed when the sickness came.

Perhaps the arrival of the Officio Medicae was how the God-Emperor chose to answer those prayers. He had still been dazed then, coming to terms with what had happened, and could barely recall their first meeting. He and the other overseers had met with an endless parade of chirurgeons and adepts. But only the chief physician had spoken.

Ungunt. That was her name.

Her voice had been rich and sweet as black syrup, her eyes beautiful yet disarming, leaving him feeling vulnerable and exposed. But her assurances had soothed his fears: though Bloodspore was dangerous, the vast macro-alchemical distilleries of Vejovium III had already formulated a fungicide that would prevent it progressing. Within six months they would be free of any taint. He feared the price of such aid, but she assured him no charge would be made. Self-interest, she had explained, to prevent it spreading to neighbouring sectors. Unity was the word she used. They had to be unified to prosper.

His fellow overseers seemed convinced, and he had no reason to doubt her. The treatment had been rolled out across the refinery, his team acquiescing without question.

Yet he had not taken it.

The needle was not so intimidating, and his subordinates seemed untroubled by the regime of stimms and pills. If anything, they appeared rejuvenated. He could see Garton hauling the latest shipment. He was sweating at least, but equally he was pulling a two hundred-pound load. The man had previously wheezed if forced to cover two flights of stairs at a pace.

They seemed healthy enough. Hardly a surprise, given that the physicians of Vejovium III were renowned for their bio-alchemical expertise. Their blade-like minds had carved their world into a paradigm of productivity and compliance. But even at that first meeting he’d seen the hubris behind their bright smiles. They seemed more pleased by their own ingenuity than the opportunity to offer salvation to the God-Emperor’s servants. Faith. That was always the true answer. That’s what he’d been taught.

Still, maybe he was being paranoid. His fellow miners had not been rendered slothful or faithless, and they still laboured in service to the God-Emperor.

But they did not seem quite the same either.

Their eyes were cold and sharp, their gait almost predatory. Two now moved to intercept him. He recognised Amius, though the younger man’s complexion was bestowed an almost violet hue by the corridor’s flickering lumens. The figure beside him was unknown to Karloss, his face hidden by a pressure-helm. But there was something awkward in his movements, his posture hunched, left side concealed by a tattered longcoat slung over his shoulder.

‘Overseer Karloss, please come with me,’ Amius said, his smile anything but reassuring.

‘I have no time for this,’ Karloss replied, unable to keep a tremor from his voice. ‘I am needed in the–’

The silent figure closed in with surprising speed, his right hand seizing Karloss’ arm, the grip like iron.

‘Please, Karloss,’ Amius continued. ‘Concerns have been raised regarding your current condition. I only wish to escort you to the medicae unit for assessment.’

He smiled, lips pulled back to reveal teeth that seemed far too sharp.

Karloss swallowed. ‘I… That is, I do not–’

There was a blinding flash. The top of Amius’ head burst like a rotten eldritch-berry. For a moment he stood motionless, still wearing that predatory smile, before pitching forward. A dozen yards behind him stood a figure clad in blackened carapace armour, his hellgun trained upon them. Two similarly equipped soldiers were moving in behind him.

Karloss should have ducked, run for cover, but he found himself frozen, awaiting the shot that would end his life.

Amius’ accomplice held no such terror.

Releasing his grip, he surged forward, an inhuman screech sounding from beneath his pressure-helm. As he moved, the longcoat fell away from his shoulder, revealing a twisted limb beneath. It seemed almost armoured, but the plates were chitinous, and in place of a hand was a vicious three-bladed claw. The hunched figure sprinted towards the soldiers, moving with surprising agility as it weaved between incoming shots, still screeching in fury.

Karloss did not see what killed it, only that its pressure-helm suddenly shattered. He caught a glimpse of a swollen cranium and needle-like fangs before the creature fell.

Its death broke the spell. Karloss turned, racing from the black-garbed figures as he tried to process what was happening. Who were the attackers – a rival operation? Criminals? They moved with the precision of a military operation, carried weapons more advanced than anything found on-planet. And what of the creature masquerading as one of his team? Was it their target?

As he ran, the miners surged past him, confronting the invasion armed only with rock cutters and the occasional pistol. But they showed no fear, their screeching battle cries a blight upon his ears. He risked a glance over his shoulder. They were being cut down by the score, but a handful had reached the attackers’ lines, their crude blades scouring carapace armour, faces twisted into savage snarls.

He stumbled, tripping over a body. Its eyes were wide and dead, its tongue lolling from its mouth. The appendage was a deep mauve, and long enough to trail inches across the floor.

More snarls.

His head snapped up. Before him stood the most terrifying creature he had ever seen. It was over seven feet tall, its exposed skin a dull green. It wielded what might have been a rifle, though the weapon was swung like a club, the blades adorning butt and barrel slicing through the miners with contemptuous ease. The worst was its face: yellow eyes and a cruel beak, like some predatory bird.

It was xenos. No mutant, no matter how foul, could appear so alien. Karloss stumbled, falling backwards onto his haunches as the monster disposed of the last of his colleagues, his hand scrabbling at his pendant. Suddenly it was on him. Whip-coil fingers seized his wrist as it brought its beak forward, ready to tear open his throat.

It hesitated.

He thrashed, trying in vain to break free. Its face was inches from his own, the expression inscrutable. It hissed softly, the quills adorning its head flaring.

Then a second figure was beside it, though he could barely make it out, its form seeming to merge with the surrounding corridor. He caught a glimpse of almost-human features, though the eyes were just as alien as the green-skinned creature. It spoke, but the language was indecipherable: soft and melodic, almost like music. Karloss was surprised when the monster replied in kind, its cruel beak somehow mimicking the tones.

Their exchange was brief. Then something struck his head, and darkness swallowed him.

A voice. The words garbled, punctuated by the distant thud of small-arms fire.

Then came searing pain. His cheek felt cracked. He wanted to reach for it, but his hands were bound, the chains cold against his skin.

A groan. It took a moment to recognise his own voice. He’d have thought it inaudible against the background cacophony. But someone heard, for they seized his throat, cuffing him about the face. He blinked, the world shuddering into view. They were in the atmospherics regulating hub, though the walls were now stained crimson and bodies were piled beside the consoles. The figures in blackened armour scuttled between data-terminals, their boots heavy.

His vision swam, head lolling.

Another blow, harder, his head snapping to the right. A face loomed into view. It appeared human, though the features were marred by two ugly scars that ran brow to chin. The eyes were hard. A soldier? Or merely a killer?

He felt his head slump again, eyes drifting.

‘Hey!’ the man snarled, seizing Karloss by the hair and hauling his head upright. ‘Wake up! You pass out again and I’m going to start breaking fingers.’

‘It’s your fault, Tempestor Chroberg.’

He recognised the voice, the silken, melodic tones. He risked a glance and spotted the figure reclining against the main terminal. His cloak had been thrown open and his hood was raised, revealing a face that would have been beautiful except for the coldness of the eyes and cruelness of his smile.

Chroberg glared at the figure, muttering something under his breath. Karloss found his words inaudible, despite their close proximity. But the reclining figure smiled, lifting a finger to his delicately tapered ear.

‘What was that?’ he whispered. ‘Sounded close to insub-ordination.’

Chroberg gritted his teeth. ‘I asked what you meant, Agent Uli.’

‘Permit a demonstration,’ the creature called Uli replied, slipping closer. He raised his hand, forefinger extended, and suddenly thrust it into the soft tissue between Karloss’ neck and collarbone. It felt like a knife had pierced his throat. He screamed.

‘There,’ Uli purred softly, smiling as Karloss thrashed in agony. ‘No risk of unconsciousness, or impairment of cognitive function. Why, I could keep this man alive for days in such a condition, and I’d wager he’d cooperate in any way I saw fit.’

‘Uli, this is not the time to play with our guest.’

The voice was calm, measured. Uli withdrew his finger, a ghost of a frown creasing his brow.

‘As you wish, Lord Atenbach,’ he said coldly, turning away as the speaker approached. He was an older man, clad in a fur-lined coat adorned with tiny skulls, his foppish hat topped by a pair of enormous feathers. He was polishing his spectacles with the hem of his robe.

‘My apologies, overseer,’ he said, his smile seemingly sincere. ‘These are trying circumstances and tempers are a little frayed. How are you feeling?’

‘I… My name is Overseer Karloss and you will get nothing more from me, traitor!’ Karloss spat.

‘Traitor?’ Atenbach frowned, setting his glasses in place. ‘I fear a misunderstanding. You address agents of the Throne. Look.’

He pointed to Chroberg. More specifically, to the Imperial aquila emblazoned on his breastplate. It matched Karloss’ pendant, except it appeared to be cast in gold.

‘But… anyone can fly under false colours,’ Karloss replied. ‘You attacked us. Murdered my colleagues. And you have those… things with you.’

‘Regrettable,’ Atenbach said, and nodded with a pained smile. ‘But we had a good reason. This facility is infected.’

‘The Bloodspore? But we have been treated for the condition. We pose no danger.’

‘Is that right?’ Atenbach replied, eyes narrowed. ‘Everyone has received this treatment? Yourself as well?’

‘Of course.’

‘Interesting,’ Atenbach said, nodding. He turned his head. ‘Korgo?’

Behind him a creature peeled itself from the shadows. Karloss knew it all too well. The towering frame, the cruel beak. It drew closer, its quills flexing as it examined him.

‘He is clean,’ it said in perfect Low Gothic. ‘Only one so far.’

‘Then it appears you lie,’ Atenbach said, tutting and wagging his finger. ‘Understandable, but unwise.’

‘Xenos,’ Karloss whispered, unable to take his eyes from the nightmarish creature.

‘Kroot to be precise,’ Atenbach replied evenly. ‘Mercenaries by trade. Very sensitive noses. Well, I suppose nose is the wrong word. I gather those rather garish quills are the primary sensory organ. But Korgo here has extensive experience with this sort of infection. Their kind are carnivores and, while one would not call them picky eaters, there are certain species they find rather unpalatable. Tainted meat, as it were. Terrible insult in their tongue. And to their tongue now I think of it.’

Karloss just stared back. Atenbach sighed.

‘I appreciate this is a lot to take in,’ he said, ‘but we are working against the clock. My scribe needs access to the data-terminals. I need the codes.’

‘You will get nothing from me, traitor! I am a servant of the–’

‘Yes, yes. We have been over this,’ Atenbach said, patting his pockets. ‘But I must… Where did I put that dratted rosette? Ah, here we are.’

He held out his hand. It took Karloss a moment to recognise the symbol: a stylised column adorned with a skull.

It was the symbol of the Inquisition.

‘Inquisitor Ortis Atenbach of the Ordo Xenos,’ the man continued. ‘This facility is under my jurisdiction. You will assist me. I hope voluntarily.’

‘Of course, inquisitor,’ Karloss blurted. ‘Please, forgive my–’

‘Good man,’ Atenbach said, turning to Chroberg. ‘Uncuff him and get him to the console. Uli, would you be so good as to inform me of our hosts’ progress?’

‘The door is holding,’ Uli replied, nodding to the entrance, which was barricaded with chairs and scrap metal. ‘But there is no shortage of industrial equipment. I can hear them drilling.’

‘Troublesome,’ Atenbach said. He steered Karloss towards the main console, where a slim figure clad in the simple robe of a scribe was fussing over the controls. He glared at Karloss as he inputted the codes, like a child jealous that their doting parent had gifted attention to a sibling.

‘No progress?’ Atenbach asked.

‘They keep rerouting the systems,’ the scribe replied. ‘I have locked us down, but I do not know for how long.’

‘Well, we cannot let them escape,’ Atenbach said. ‘Overseer Karloss, can you access these systems? Security and so forth?’

‘Most,’ Karloss nodded. ‘But this unit is primarily for manipulating atmospherics. There are more–’

‘Atmospherics!’ Atenbach smiled. ‘What a clever little man you are. Tell me, are rebreathers standard issue?’

‘Of course. The refining process can result in incendi gas spikes. It’s extremely toxic.’

‘Shame,’ Atenbach replied. ‘There would… Did you say incendi gas?’

‘Yes. The filters cleanse it and channel it through pipes running throughout the refinery. It is repurposed as heating fluid. But it’s volatile.’

‘Interesting. I note the temperature is above standard for this size facility?’

Karloss nodded, though he was unsure if the inquisitor was talking to himself now.

‘Probably trying to adjust the climate to accelerate propagation,’ Atenbach murmured, before turning to the scribe. ‘Seal off this room, cut off all filters and flood the heating system. Maximise pressure. I want ruptures across the facility.’

‘Please, inquisitor,’ Karloss said as the scribe made the adjustments. ‘I have served with these men for years. They are loyal to the Throne!’

There was a screech of tortured metal. They glanced as one to the door. It had begun to buckle.

Atenbach shook his head. ‘Perhaps they were. But this infection is more than a disease of the flesh. It warps the mind and damns the soul. Those men you knew are gone. Something else now wears their skin. Scribe?’

‘Atmospheric dump is ongoing. Saturations have reached hazardous levels.’

‘Then we just need a spark. Tempestor Chroberg, you still have men outside?’

The soldier nodded grimly. ‘Most are dead now, but there are a handful pinned down beneath the north extraction point.’

‘I take it they still have krak grenades?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then please thank them for their service and assure them their names will be recorded as heroes of the Imperium. The rest of you, take cover. It’s about to get warm.’

He glanced to Karloss and offered a pained smile. ‘Shame. I really wanted a live specimen. But we all make sacrifices.’

The flames had subsided when they finally emerged from the hub, though the corridors were choked with smoke, bubbling paint dripping from the walls. Uli scouted ahead while Tempestor Chroberg’s squad took point, respirators in place, moving in perfect synchronicity, like a swarm of larder-bees. Inquisitor Atenbach followed behind, favouring his right leg, his weight resting on an ornate cane with a silver handle. The kroot kept close to him, quills pricked, while Karloss staggered after them, still unable to process events. There were bodies everywhere, though most were too heavily burned to identify. Even through his rebreather he could smell the scorched flesh.

He stumbled, catching his foot on one of the corpses. It was little more than a blackened shell, but appeared to possess three arms, the largest ending in a bladed claw.

Gunfire. His head snapped up. One of Chroberg’s squad was pumping shots into a twitching shape. Still the dying creature reached for him, claws grasping at his ankle, until a las-bolt finally severed its hand. The scribe lurched forward, unclasping an instrument from his belt and extracting a sample from the corpse.

‘What happened to them?’ Karloss murmured. He hadn’t intended to speak aloud, but Atenbach glanced to him.

‘Corporaptor hominis,’ he replied. ‘A hideous parasitic xenos. They reproduce by using other species as a propagator. The resulting hybrids continue to spread their taint. Unopposed they can consume cities, worlds. Even whole planetary sectors.’

‘This is all from the Bloodspore?’

‘No, Overseer Karloss,’ Atenbach sighed. ‘There is no Bloodspore. The malady you suffered was the result of disturbing a nest of Idonian weasels. If threatened, their scent glands can produce an extremely unpleasant chemical. Exposure leaves its victims nauseous for days.’

He smiled, perhaps warming to the subject.

‘They are fascinating creatures – intelligent, adaptive, and the breeding pairs mate for life. Delicious as well, providing the scent glands are extracted first.’

He glanced to Karloss. His smile faded.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘At my age, the mind sometimes wanders.’

‘Then… how did they infect us?’

‘The treatments,’ Atenbach replied. ‘Through needles and pills. Possibly contaminants in the food and water as well, though those would be insufficient on their own. Primarily, infection occurs via direct implantation from the xenos propagator, but the group I shadow employ more clandestine methods. They call themselves the Twisted Helix, and consider themselves cutting-edge genesmiths. In reality they are the mere vector for a malevolent xenos plague.’

‘Then this is my fault.’

‘Oh?’ Atenbach frowned, glancing to him.

‘I summoned their representatives. They convinced me we were dying, that they had the only cure. I had to protect my workers. We couldn’t risk falling behind.’

‘Yet you did not partake?’

‘I… My grandmother always said it is for the God-Emperor to decide who lives and who dies. Medicaes treat the flesh, but in doing so erode the soul. I’ve heard stories about Vejovium Three. They were cold creatures of science. They worshipped only themselves.’

‘Yet you did not speak out?’

‘The other overseers thought it the best course. Who was I to object?’

‘Yet still you did not take the treatment? Were you not afraid?’

‘I prayed He would protect me, and I worried… I thought, if the treatment was…’

‘You feared for your faith?’ Atenbach asked softly. Karloss nodded.

‘Well, perhaps your faith shielded you. Perhaps the God-Emperor spared you for His own reasons,’ Atenbach replied as Chroberg approached. ‘What have you found?’

‘The flames did their work,’ Chroberg said. ‘Minimal resistance. A few managed to break from the facility, but our external forces gunned them down. Looks clean.’

‘Pity. Some less damaged samples would have been useful,’ Atenbach said, frowning. He turned back to Karloss. ‘Tell me, overseer, is there anywhere the creatures could have hidden?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Karloss replied. ‘There are crawl spaces, but none that could protect from the flames. Except… there was an unusual power redistribution to sub-level sixty-six.’

‘And what is down there?’

‘Not much. It’s storage for hazardous materials. Some of the units are permanently sealed due to radioactive contamination. It’s a dumping ground.’

‘Yet it suddenly consumes additional power,’ Atenbach murmured, his gaze falling to his feet. ‘Overseer Karloss, perhaps you could direct us to a service lift? I fear something may be stirring beneath our feet.’

The descent was agonisingly slow.

Uli had taken the mag-lift first, along with a pair of Atenbach’s soldiers. But his vox soon fell silent. Interference, Atenbach said, though whether it was electronic or of a more direct nature was unclear.

There was no choice but to follow. They left the scribe gathering samples and descended blind into the darkness. Karloss tried to remember what awaited them. It had been an age since he had dug this deep. He recalled a narrow corridor carved directly into the rock, and storage units stowing broken equipment and materials too dangerous to process. A graveyard to spoil and entropy.

The mag-lift was getting warmer, though it did not seem to perturb his fellow passengers. He glanced to Atenbach from the corner of his eye. The older man was polishing his glasses, cane tucked under his arm, his brow furrowed as he sought to remove a purple stain from the rim. The rest of them were still, expectant. Karloss did not know how. His foot kept shaking, and if he held it still it felt as though the muscles in his leg would seize. His hand strayed to the aquila hung around his neck. Faith was his shield; that’s what she had told him. He would soon discover if she’d spoken the truth.

‘You find your faith tested?’

Atenbach spoke, though his gaze was still fixed on his spectacles.

‘No, never,’ Karloss replied. ‘Through trials and fire we grow strong. That is His way. He has spared me thus far, for reasons only He knows. My faith shines bright.’

‘Then you have been truly blessed with ignorance,’ Atenbach said with a wry smile. ‘Those who stare into the void find the darkness meeting their gaze. When I first set off from home, leaving a life of privilege and power, I thought only of service and glory in His name. I did not expect to find myself keeping company with xenos and heretics.’

It took Karloss a moment to discern his meaning.

‘My lord, I am no heretic. I made a mistake but–’

‘Ignorance is, sadly, no excuse,’ Atenbach said. ‘Your actions, your haste and fear, it condemned once loyal men to a disease worse than death. No longer will they find salvation in His arms. But we are all spoiled goods. I have sacrificed the love of my family and the approval of my ordo in service of my mission. Likewise, Korgo has been shunned by their kind ever since unwittingly ingesting something forbidden. Even Uli has travelled a path far from his craftworld, descending all the way to the Dark City of Commorragh. Perhaps he would have remained there and fallen further had he not borne witness to their terrible hubris. Had he not encountered the Vorgani.’

Atenbach was no longer addressing him, his gaze fixed on the mid-distance.

‘Lord inquisitor, why do you tell me this? I do not understand.’

‘Hmm?’ Atenbach blinked, as though seeing Karloss for the first time. ‘Forgive my rambling, overseer. My point is merely that we all err in His eyes, make choices and compromises that are less than ideal. You may have failed Him, but unlike these creatures you have a chance for redemption. When it comes, do not be found wanting.’

Karloss did not reply, his hand still clasping the tiny aquila. It felt very small.

‘How can I make it right?’ he whispered.

‘By ending this,’ Atenbach replied. ‘I have been hunting these creatures for years. Foul as they are, they are but symptoms of a disease. There must be a cure, a way to inoculate the faithful against their blight. My hope is that there is something down here that can help us on that path. How much further?’

‘Minutes, my lord.’

Atenbach tapped his vox. ‘Uli? Can you hear me?’

After a few moments of silence, he sighed. ‘Not a good sign.’

The doors slid open. Chroberg’s team moved out, forming a circle around the elevator, weapons trained on the shadows. Atenbach strode out after, his limp more pronounced now, the cane bearing his weight, the kroot as ever beside him, quills twitching as it surveyed their surroundings.

Atenbach looked at Karloss. ‘I take it this is new?’

Karloss nodded, unable to speak. There was no corridor. The level had been hollowed to form a vast cavern, its outer edge shrouded in darkness. Whatever it once held had been stripped clear, though scraps of wire and pools of vile green liquid remained. What little light there was flickered uncertainly, the overhead lumens insufficient to drive away the shadows.

Atenbach checked his vox. Still silence. He glanced to the kroot. ‘Anything?’

‘It reeks of their spoor,’ it hissed. ‘But corrupted worse than usual. Something was attempted here. Whether it was successful I cannot say.’

‘Uli?’

‘I cannot find him,’ it said. ‘Their taint is too overpowering.’

They pressed on, keeping close. Karloss’ gaze flickered to the rock face. A myriad of tunnels branched from it, like a rat burrow, the walls bearing the distinct marks of a drilldozer blade. It appeared the mystery of the missing rockgrinders was solved. He was so intent on the renovations that he failed to see what lay ahead. Chroberg’s hand shot out, stopping him in his tracks. He turned, and somehow managed not to scream.

A bio-chamber was suspended from the ceiling, a cylinder of glass and metal infused with a translucent emerald liquid. He could not describe the shape within, only that at least five limbs jutted from a swollen torso, the skin split by malformed plates of chitin. Its face was stretched across two competing heads, the mouth little more than a wound infested by jagged teeth. All manner of cables and wires were embedded in its flesh, but from the creature’s vacant eyes it appeared quite dead.

A score of similar bio-chambers were suspended beyond, each vessel to a twisted shadow.

‘Emperor protect…’ Karloss whispered, hand straying once more to his aquila.

‘Unpleasant, isn’t it?’ Atenbach said, unable to keep a faint smile from his lips. ‘It would seem not all their experiments bore fruit. Still, there may be much information contained in these vessels.’

‘Then why did they leave them?’

Atenbach frowned. ‘A good question. I fear the answer will offer little comfort.’

‘You are correct, inquisitor.’

A figure stepped out from behind one of the bio-chambers. Karloss recognised her. He knew the piercing eyes, the swaggering stride. She wore a medicae’s robe that had been pure white when they last spoke, but was now marred by violet ichor and crimson stains. Her staff was tipped by a half-moon sickle studded with stimm-needles, like the mouth of a beast. A shadow seemed to skulk in her wake, a diminutive creature of eyes and teeth that remained hidden in the folds of her robe.

‘Medicae Ungunt!’ Karloss spat. ‘You did this! You tricked me into–’

Atenbach raised his hand, silencing him, his gaze never leaving the intruder. She smiled, though it felt more like the baring of teeth.

‘Biophagus Ungunt,’ she chided him. ‘And you do me a disservice. Were your men not everything I promised? Strong, capable, healthy?’

‘Damned?’ Atenbach replied, nodding to the surrounding bio-chambers.

‘Superstitious fool,’ she said, frowning. ‘We bring not damnation, but advancement. Mankind has stagnated, become a timid and superstitious thing. We will raise it to something better, something that can fight back against the horrors of this galaxy with tooth and claw. Those creatures you cavort with’ – she gestured to the kroot – ‘they are the blight. But it will fall, just like your aeldari agent. They are such a difficult species, unusually resistant for something so seemingly fragile. I will enjoy vivisecting him.’

Atenbach shook his head sadly.

‘You do not even see it.’ He sighed. ‘You think yourself learned, a scientist and visionary. But you are merely a virus that learnt to walk. Still, you will make a fascinating specimen. Chroberg, take this thing into custody. I want it alive.’

‘I think not,’ Ungunt said, and smiled. Her finger depressed a button on her staff.

The bio-chambers surrounding them suddenly yawned open, spilling their vile fluid as the dark shapes within tumbled to the floor, their weight tearing them from the supporting cables. Chroberg staggered, losing his footing as the liquid washed over him; Atenbach clutched at his cane for support. The biophagus vanished in the confusion.

‘Find her!’ Atenbach roared. ‘I need a live sample!’

The kroot made to follow but stopped abruptly, its quills stiffening.

Atenbach frowned. ‘What is it?’

But then they all heard it. The low, animal growl.

A fist the size of Karloss’ head seized the nearest of Atenbach’s guards. There was a sharp crack as his neck snapped, the carcass discarded with impunity as the misshapen creature rose to its feet. It lunged for Atenbach but the kroot was there, barely blocking the blow with its rifle as a dozen more lumbered upright on mismatched limbs. Though hunched, they towered over even the kroot, their bodies swollen with gene-forged muscle.

The inquisitor gave no command. None was needed. His men had already opened fire, las-bolts tearing into this new threat. But the creatures were inured to pain, their flesh already twisted beyond what most living things could endure. They bounded forward, faster than should have been possible, their bestial roars horrifying for their echo of humanity.

Atenbach stepped back as his men faced the beasts, the kroot still grappling with a gargantuan specimen that would have dwarfed an ogryn. It vaulted onto the creature’s back, rifle pressed to the throat as it tried to choke the beast.

‘Karloss, could you please find Uli?’ Atenbach said, his voice calm. ‘He should be close and is uniquely equipped for situations such as this.’

Karloss could not speak, unable to tear his eyes from the horrors bearing down on them.

‘Have faith now, the God-Emperor preserved you for a reason,’ Atenbach said, cocking an ancient stub pistol. ‘This is the moment to prove yourself. Go, and I will cover you. Stay, and I will execute you.’

Karloss closed his eyes, hand clasped to his pendant, muttering a prayer of absolution. Then he charged forward. The monsters only cast him a brief glance, occupied with the dying soldiers. A claw lashed absently at his shoulder, but a bullet tore through the beast’s forearm, warding the blow. Then he was past them, the horrors behind him. Part of him wanted to keep running, to flee the nightmare. But the inquisitor was an agent of the Throne, and had charged him with this purpose. He had failed once, but there remained a chance for redemption.

But what was he looking for? Where would Ungunt have stashed her specimen?

There. Ahead, one of the bio-chambers was still sealed. The shape within was indistinct, but it had the right number of limbs. He raced for the tank, wiping the condensation with his sleeve. Uli’s face was visible beyond, a rebreather clasped over his face, his eyes closed.

Karloss stared at the controls. He had no idea what any of it meant. The wrong button could kill Uli, or perhaps bring more monsters down on them. But there was no time to decide. He held his pendant tight and closed his eyes, stabbing his finger to the console, praying the God-Emperor would guide his hand.

The bio-chamber belched open, spilling its emerald infusion across the cavern’s floor. Karloss caught Uli as he fell, surprised by the lightness of his frame. He was still unconscious.

‘Wake up!’ Karloss snarled, risking a glance over his shoulder. Most of the abominations were dead or disabled, their forms twitching but unable to rise. But one still stood, the alpha of the pack. Though deformed it was tall and strong, and only two troopers remained to guard Atenbach, the kroot having fallen. The beast was advancing on the inquisitor, paying no more heed to the las-bolts than it would to falling leaves.

A shadow moved in the corner of Karloss’ eye.

He turned. Uli was still, but a diminutive shape was scuttling towards them. It hurt to look upon, as though his mind would not quite accept the shade was real. But the needle held in its tiny claws was all too familiar. He’d seen them before, when his men had received their treatment, though this vial contained a particularly vivid shade of emerald.

It leapt for Uli. Karloss did not think, diving to intercept the small creature, his hands closing about its carapace.

‘You little parasite!’ he snapped, squeezing with all his might, choking the life from the pathetic creature. Its claws scored his flesh even as it seemed to fade, like a shadow exposed to the light of the sun.

Then the needle stabbed into his hand.

Uli’s eyes snapped open at the cry. His limbs were heavy, robbed of sensation, but the screams roused him, strength trickling into his aching frame.

He looked at the human thrashing beside him, foam frothing from his lips. He could tell the pain was beyond the physical; the man suffered from an existential blight of the soul, his very essence consumed by the unspeakable agony.

It was… quite invigorating.

Uli rose, groggy, surveying his surroundings even as the human continued to thrash. He remembered entering the abandoned cavern, discovering the crude attempts at gene-forging. Then darkness.

He sniffed his sleeve. ‘By Vect, I smell awful.’

There was a gurgle at his feet. He glanced to the human. Despite his convulsions he was trying to tell him something.

Uli raised his head, his superior senses assessing the scene in moments. The kroot was down, the soldiers slain, a hideous abominant advancing on the inquisitor.

‘I suppose Atenbach requires my talents?’ He sighed, glancing down. ‘Have you seen my hexrifle?’

The human gargled a wordless response.

‘Useless,’ he said, reaching into his bandolier. ‘You would not believe how perilous it is to liberate such a relic from the Dark City, or the impossibility of replicating the ammunition. I only have a few true darts left.’

He held up a crystal cylinder. Within, an ebony liquid shimmered.

He sighed again. ‘No rifle, then. I suppose one must do this the hard way.’

He sprinted forward, moving faster than a human eye could follow. Ahead, the creature was inches from the inquisitor. Still, the man was calm, pumping shots from his pistol as Uli devoured the gap between them. At the last instant he leapt, vaulting onto the creature’s shoulders and hammering the crystal cylinder into the soft flesh of its throat. It roared, tossing him aside, but he twisted in the air, landing lightly as the creature turned, advancing on him.

As it surged forward he cursed silently. The payload must have spoiled, or perhaps it was counterfeit. Either way, it seemed his long life would finally end at the talons of a grotesque chimera stitched from inferior genes. Such a disappointing demise.

But the monster suddenly stiffened, its twin brows furrowing as its limbs began to slow. It scrabbled for the dart lodged in its neck, but the surrounding flesh was already blackening, becoming brittle as crystal. Desperate, it lunged for Uli, but the Glass Plague was now rampant. In seconds all organic matter was consumed, and the beast was reduced to an ornate statue.

‘I fear this one is too ugly for a display piece,’ Uli said. He was breathing hard. The human’s suffering had momentarily rejuvenated him, but now he folded to a knee, barely able to stand, head spinning.

‘Quite,’ Atenbach said, nodding as he brushed down his robe. ‘Good work there, though, Uli. For a moment I was a tad concerned.’

‘Only a moment?’

‘I had faith.’

‘Faith!’

The cry came from the biophagus. She stood staring down at her broken creations, the wicked staff still held in her hands. She raised her head, snarling, the mask of humanity finally slipping away.

‘All you have achieved is disposing of some questionable test subjects,’ she spat. ‘But now, Atenbach, you find your allies fallen, your vassals incapacitated. You are alone, abandoned by your pitiful relic-god.’

The inquisitor glanced from her to Uli. ‘So it would seem.’

‘I am glad you have survived.’ She smiled, the needle at her staff’s tip glistening with its toxic payload. ‘Your death would have been expedient, but this is better. You will make a fine addition to our fold, a pre-emptive agent for our ideals. Do you think your faith will protect you?’

Atenbach did not reply, but as she surged forward his hand slid to his cane’s ornate handle, thumb brushing against a hidden switch. With a twist he unsheathed a blade that simmered with a blue light, sidestepping her clumsy blow, his sword-cane separating her head from her shoulders.

‘Yes, I would say so,’ he murmured as the corpse fell. ‘Faith in my blade arm, certainly.’

Karloss opened his eyes.

His face felt hot. He tried reaching for it, but his hands were restrained, his head held snugly in place. Only his eyes could move, enough to sketch out the medicae facility. He spied the kroot in the corner, its shoulder bandaged. Beside it, the scribe was fussing with an auto-injector.

‘Hello?’ he said.

It sounded odd, like hearing his voice played through a vox. Familiar, but different.

The scribe glanced up but did not respond, instead whispering into his vox-bead. But the movement revealed the surface of his workbench. It held the remains of one of the creatures they had fought. Its head lolled, dead eyes staring at Karloss accusingly, and he was surprised to feel an overwhelming wave of sadness. The creature had no idea why it was attacked, only reacting to the intruders in its lair. It was little more than an animal, condemned to death by forces beyond its ken. He was unnerved by the extent of his sorrow.

He heard the door open behind him, the shuffling gait and the rap of the cane as Atenbach loomed into view. He smiled, but his eyes were hard.

‘You are awake, Overseer Karloss?’

‘What happened?’ Karloss asked. He vaguely recalled the battle, his flight to rescue the alien. But it seemed distant, like an old, half-forgotten pict. Almost as though the memory belonged to someone else.

His gaze kept straying to the remains of the creature.

‘We were successful,’ Atenbach replied. ‘Well, for the most part. I’m sure a few escaped through the tunnels, but we did good work today, and even obtained a live specimen. It would seem the God-Emperor had a plan for you after all. You must be pleased.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Karloss said, nodding. But the words felt empty, their utterance little more than ritual. On impulse, his hand reached for where his pendant should have been, but his arm was still restrained. Atenbach must have recognised the gesture, for he reached into his pocket, withdrawing Karloss’ pendant.

‘This is an old piece,’ he said. ‘Family heirloom, I assume? You must be quite attached to it.’

‘Yes,’ Karloss heard himself say, staring at the cracked relic. It looked worn and tired.

‘Is there anyone you would like it sent to?’

Karloss frowned at the words. ‘I do not understand.’

‘Do you have a next of kin?’

‘Why does that matter? We survived,’ Karloss said, frowning. ‘Inquisitor, why am I restrained?’

Atenbach sighed, glancing to the kroot. ‘You are certain he is tainted?’

It nodded.

‘Inquisitor, you cannot be serious!’ Karloss protested as the scribe rose, a surgical blade clasped in his hand. ‘That creature is a vile xenos! You would take its word over that of a loyal servant of the God-Emperor?’

‘An interesting question,’ Atenbach replied, ‘but sadly a hypothetical one. Fear not, though, Overseer Karloss. We have so much to learn together. I will monitor every stage of the transformation, scrutinise every infected cell. From our work, I will devise a cure, an inoculation that will shield mankind from this xenos taint. And you will assist me, willingly or not.’

The scribe lowered a mask into place, his blade glinting in the light.

‘The Throne thanks you for your sacrifice.’

KNIFE FLIGHT

Rich McCormick

The world of Hedoro has long been blighted by the attentions of [REDACTED]. However, hope remains thanks to the efforts of the most holy Inquisition as well as the Navy’s Aeronautica Imperialis fighter pilot division. The following report details Thunderbolt pilot Nokori Palan’s role in the fight against the forces assailing her world, the development of her nascent psychic abilities and her integration into the retinue of the ruthless Inquisitor Kenesta Graz. It is a tale that is at times disconcerting and at others inspirational; on the whole I find it bolsters my faith in the Imperium and the sacred institutions that protect it, no matter the cost.

This is death.

It’s warmer than Nokori Palan remembers. More comfortable. The last time she’d died she’d been paralysed for a week, but this time she can already move her toes. And her fingers. That’s strange. Can she move her eyelids?

She opens her eyes. A face stares back: hairless, oval and serene in wan light. It looks like the face of a saint. That settles it. ‘This has to be real death, then,’ she says.

‘This isn’t death, girl,’ a sharp voice from somewhere behind the saint says. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

In the gloom, she sees the outline of the speaker, and can make out a compact, muscular woman clad in armour of clinking black chains. They catch the light as she moves.

There’s another figure, she realises as her eyes adjust. This one speaks now.

‘Oh, Graz, can’t you let her believe for a moment longer?’ This voice belongs to a man, and the words are languid, dripping with privilege.

‘It’s the only rest she’ll get for a while.’

Nokori Palan is drifting, she realises, listing to the left, out of attack formation. Gingerly she pulls the voxphones tight over her flight cap, earlobes already numbing in the frigid cockpit of her Thunderbolt fighter.

‘…I repeat, Eight, get back in formation. Palan, what are you doing?’ Flight Leader Arguen Ba squawks through the vox, his voice as thin as the air above Hedoro. ‘We’ve caught Annath by surprise, this is our one chance to reclaim our world. Fall back in, high and tight, and get ready for an attack run on the spire. Countdown from ten, nine, eight…’

COME TO ME.

The words rumble through her like thunder. She slaps for her craft’s control panel, trying to turn off the vox, to stop the transmission, but only succeeds in dislodging the voxphones from her head.

COME TO ME.

The words aren’t in the vox, she realises, the ’phones now dangling loose.

COME.

They’re in her head.

‘Where am I?’ she croaks. But before she receives an answer, she already knows: somewhere deep, somewhere safe – for now.

‘The base of the hive spire…’ she mumbles. Nokori Palan often knows things she shouldn’t.

The saint disappears, shoved to the side in a flurry of red robes. A new face appears, this one hard, dark and angry. The eyes are as blue as the sky above Hedoro’s sludge clouds, and the hand that shoots out to grip her chin is just as cold. Palan’s head is turned left, then right, the ice-chip eyes boring a hole into her skull.

‘You are correct, girl,’ she says, and Palan feels a jolt of shock travel through the woman. ‘You are in the underhive at the foot of this forsaken city’s spire, in a makeshift facility that I’ – she draws out the syllable – ‘have been making functional. Many pilots crashed and died down here, thrown against the fortress above by their wasteful superiors. You crashed and you did not die, although I am now thinking maybe you should have.’

Palan pulls her head from the vice grip, sending a sharp pain lancing down her back. She winces, but stares back at the woman, mustering her defiance in spite of her confusion. There’s pain in her side, too – a broken rib, she guesses – but it’s nothing compared to the agony in her head. It’s a dense pressure, a black weight at the base of her skull, clouding her mind like smoke.

‘Who are you?’ Palan asks.

‘Inquisitor Kenesta Graz,’ the woman says, standing up rod-straight, but keeping her eyes fixed on a point just behind Palan’s forehead. ‘These are my acolytes – Tech-Priest Irei.’ She gestures at the bald-headed figure a woozy Palan took for a saint. ‘And Quel Liutgard.’

‘Please, Kenesta, I prefer to think of myself as “advisor”, or “confidante”,’ Liutgard says as he steps out of the shadows, now apparent as the owner of the smooth, purring voice. Liutgard is shorter than the average Hedoro male, with long black hair pulled into two tight braids that trail down across his muscular chest. He’s wearing a jumpsuit open to the waist, exposing a tight black undersuit shot through with gold stitching. It is, Palan notes, a close facsimile of her own Aeronautica Imperialis flight suit, albeit much more consciously fashionable. Trinkets of shiny metal jangle in his braids as he moves.

‘I prefer not to think of you at all,’ Graz says, her tone adamantium hard. Liutgard clutches his chest silently behind her, mock wounded at her barb, and shoots a wink at Palan over the inquisitor’s shoulder. Graz continues. ‘And I would not have to, were I not trapped on a world that has fallen so far from the Emperor’s light. Sadly, I need you to right that situation.’

She turns back to face Palan, bringing her face close enough to whisper. ‘I fear I need you too, girl, though I see the witch in you.’

Palan’s blood runs cold.

‘He knows,’ Palan breathes into the vox. ‘He sees us. Break, break, break!’

She hauls on her Thunderbolt’s control column, peeling the fighter out of her squadron’s wedge formation like a spark off an anvil, shouting now for her squadron to follow her, her voice rising to cracking point.

‘Flight leader, break! Break, break, break!’

But they continue their attack run. She’s already sixteen hundred feet away when she sees the sight she’s dreading: a monstrous flock, spilling out of the top of the hive spire. From here, they resemble black birds, but Palan has heard the screams of other squadrons, and knows what they are: fire-belching Heldrakes, each larger than an Aeronautica Imperialis fighter.

They’re on her squadron in seconds. Sword Two, Three and Five are immolated immediately. Two of the dragons descend on Sword Six, flapping lazily as they clamp their feet on both of the Thunderbolt’s wings and pull, breaking the aircraft just to the right of its central spine. The monsters squabble over the larger chunk until the victor ends the argument by plunging its maw into the broken plane’s cockpit, and the soft meat inside.

Sword Four kicks his Thunderbolt into a dive as he screams for evasive manoeuvres. His squeal is cut short as talons rake the armaglass canopy of his aircraft and pulp him in his seat.

The others are torn apart in turn. All except Palan. She’s been gifted a head start, and she can get away. She has to get away.

But – oh Throne – there’s one behind her. Barbed claws, wings like knives, smoke pouring from a serrated maw. Smoke filling her cockpit; smoke creeping down her throat; smoke choking, suffocating. She wants to turn, to twist, to escape, but her mind is screaming.

Then, clear as a bell, a word, calm amidst the chaos. Suddenly she knows what to do.

EJECT.

She clings to the word, reaches below her seat, and yanks on the handle she finds. The Thunderbolt’s cockpit canopy spins away, and she leaps for the sky’s embrace.

‘Tell me now, and tell me true – when did you first hear the voices?’ the inquisitor asks.

Her first instinct is to lie. She’s been denying since it began – to her squadron mates, to her superiors, to her friends. She was denying her growing psychic potency before the planet’s vox-net echoed with debauched whispers, before unholy dragons darkened the skies with their black wings, and before cowled lunatics dragged citizens screaming into boiling pits of metal. Before Air Marshal Konnaster Annath, not yet changed from flesh and bone to something other, ascended Hedoro’s hive spire and proclaimed himself champion of the Ruinous Powers and the lord of her birth world. Before he forced his way into her head.

She couldn’t lie. Not in the presence of an inquisitor.

‘Three years ago,’ she says, quietly.

She had been eighteen years old, in her first cycle of her home world’s Aeronautica Imperialis academy. She was climbing the steps to her training Thunderbolt– a ragged old thing affectionately nicknamed Grunter by her fellow cadets – when she felt her right femur snap, her ribcage cave in, and the skin on her face melt away, dripping in rivulets onto the cockpit floor.

She felt herself die, but she had awoken in bed, her leg intact and her ribs unbroken. Palan had collapsed on the ladder, she was told later, and had to be taken to the medic to treat a head wound. The next cadet had barely cleared the launch tube when Grunter’s right turbine imploded, scattering debris, both machine and human, over the sludge sea below. Gruff old Arguen Ba – then the academy’s training overseer, before pilot losses had forced him back into service – had told her that it was just bad luck.

She died again at nineteen, just before she pulled out of a strafing run against a rebel-held flak cannon that claimed her wingman, and again a year later, when she found herself outside in her sleep gear, shivering in the dead of night while her barracks burned. She looked back across the gangway, as cowled figures cavorted in the flickering light of the blaze, and ran into the dark. She slept in the engine covering of an aged refinery unit, waiting until early morning before making for the closest planetary defence force outpost for reassignment.

Now, that outpost was gone, along with the squadron she had joined, and her planet was sliding faster and faster into the abyss. Although primarily a world of heavy industry, with stilted hives and a vast polluted sea, Hedoro bred good pilots and was proud of its Aeronautica Imperialis academy. None seemed to represent the planet better than Konnaster Annath. Brilliant, handsome and charismatic, the air marshal had helped beat back the rebel cults that plagued the planet while the light of the Cicatrix Maledictum waxed in the sky.

He was the reason she was a pilot, if she was honest with herself. Her father had flown, but his Arvus lighter transport had been dashed against the waves of the sludge sea before she reached her fourth year. Her mother said he had been a good man, but Palan didn’t know him – not really. Not like she felt she knew Konnaster Annath, the hero of Hedoro.

She finally met her idol in her eighteenth year. He was coming to her academy to inspect the next generation of pilots, and Palan’s giddy excitement was matched in intensity only by Arguen Ba’s fierce pride. ‘Stand up straight!’ the overseer had warned them, hustling between individual cadets to adjust postures and fix minor indiscretions in dress uniform. Ba was in front of Palan, scrutinising individual tassels on her epaulettes when Annath had swept into the room, his pale purple cloak trailing from narrow shoulders. The old man snapped to attention faster than Palan had ever seen him move, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth belying his admiration for the air marshal.

Despite his rank, Annath had moved around the room as comfortably as a bird on the wing. He introduced himself to each cadet in turn, stopping to hear their name, before repeating it back to them. Charisma seemed to wash off him like heat from an engine exhaust, and when he stopped in front of her, she noticed his grey eyes had a little purple in them – the same pale colour as his cloak.

He rolled her name over his tongue, stressing the vowels and consonants in a way she’d not heard them used before.

‘Nokori… Palan…’

When he smiled, she recalled, he showed a few too many teeth.

That had been one year before Hedoro’s planetary governor had been found in the underhive, his skull cored out, his blackened hands smoking and his body desecrated with strange scars. One year before two hundred of the Adeptus Ministorum’s priests and preachers threw themselves willingly into the vast refinery gears at the bottom of the hive. It was a sacrifice, according to a note scrawled in blood and excrement, to a new winged deity that would lead Hedoro out of the Dark Imperium. One year before Annath ascended the spire with his cadre of elite pilots in a bid to stop the incessant, inhuman wailing that had started emanating from its summit.

But he hadn’t stopped it. Instead, the shrieking grew stronger, changing from sound to signal, becoming a memetic virus that infected the waking and dreaming lives of Hedoro’s populace. Depraved whispers haunted vox traffic, clawed at the edges of sleep, and were carried on foul winds across the sludge seas. To Palan and thousands of others whose minds had been mysteriously opened to the call of the warp, the signal reverberated in the metal walls of Hedoro’s hive, carried by its stilts, amplified by its bridges and walkways until even the world itself seemed to be screaming.

Annath reappeared then. Not as saviour, but in the nightmares of Hedoro’s citizens. Hundreds at first, then thousands, then tens of thousands saw the air marshal when they closed their eyes. Some lost their minds, throwing themselves from bridges and walkways to crash against the underhive below. Others, tainted by lives lived so close to the scar in the sky, embraced his Chaos, cutting their bodies and sacrificing their kin to please their new lord.

They said he told them of terrors beyond imagination, of the swirling depths of human depravity, of the end of the world and the end of existence.

He came to Palan, too. She saw him while she slept in her barracks bunk, her squadron one of the few organised fighting forces left on the planet that could offer resistance. He took the form of a huge, dark shape, its edges insubstantial but vast, like a cloud of smoke. Grey-purple eyes shone at the centre of the shape, and when she looked, it said her name. It said it wrong.

‘Nokori… Palan…

‘COME TO ME.’

‘Girl,’ Graz says, snapping Palan back to the room deep in the underhive.

‘The galaxy has changed. You have changed. But for now,’ Graz continues, finally looking Palan in the eyes, ‘you may be the lesser evil.’

They move outside now – or as outside as it’s possible to be while remaining deep in Hedoro’s underhive. A trench runs around the city’s spire like a moat: a deep wound in the vast metal superstructure that delineates the planet’s few thousand nobles and upper classes from the millions of refinery workers and sump scavengers that pack out its hab-blocks. She was born in those hab-blocks. Far from the spire, but close enough to fall in its shadow on days when the sun reached its zenith and the pollution clouds colluded to part for a moment. Far from the sludge sea, but close enough to smell it if the wind came in just right.

It smelled like home.

Graz walks fast, so fast that Palan has to add a hitch to her gait to keep up. Irei has no trouble matching Graz’s pace. The tech-adept seems to glide alongside the inquisitor, her long red robe reaching the filth-encrusted floor. Palan has worked with representatives of the Adeptus Mechanicus before: tech-priests performed blessed rites over her squadron’s Thunderbolts before missions, and calmed their machine-spirits after particularly dangerous sorties. But they were clanking, whirring, metal things, closer in both visage and demeanour to the servitors that pumped coolant and patched wiring than the flesh-and-blood humans she fought alongside.

Irei is markedly different. Her hood hangs loose around her shoulders, exposing her unaugmented head – hairless, pale and, although angelic, clearly human even in the weak light of the underhive’s lumens. Even her tone is different. Where other tech-priests in Palan’s life had communicated in buzz-saw blurts of static and incomprehensible strings of numbers, Irei speaks with a voice both mellifluous and knowing as she updates Graz on the progress of the plan.

‘Tertiary repairs are complete on Lightning designation S Three.’

Palan knows that plan, now. The inquisitor, her disgust at Palan’s nascent psyker status contained for a moment, has described how she had worked with Irei to salvage a small collection of aircraft that had come to rest in the underhive after failed assaults against Annath’s tower. How the inquisitor, Liutgard, her attendant tech-adept and any surviving and capable pilots would launch directly from the base of the spire, flying tight to its jagged surface to avoid the attentions of Annath’s pet Heldrakes, before attacking the air marshal’s seat of power at the top – a place he calls ‘the Eyrie’.

She understands the plan. But she doesn’t understand how they have managed to put together the craft for such a venture. The Thunderbolts and Lightnings that ended up at the foot of the spire were – at minimum – damaged, and most would have been destroyed entirely on impact. Where did Graz get a workforce to cannibalise these downed vehicles, and who put them back together? The inquisitor looks more like someone to be giving orders rather than taking them, and Liutgard – with his carefully oiled hair and his curated collection of trinkets – clearly avoids manual labour wherever possible.

‘A-Fourteen reports that work is now under way on Lightning designation S Four,’ Irei reports.

‘Good,’ says Graz. ‘Ensure that engine work is prioritised, I’m picking up increased vox traffic in the area.’

Irei sweeps in alongside the inquisitor to continue their relentless march forward, their further conversation slowly drowned out by the slapping of the sea against the city.

Palan stands in the corridor, taking a moment to rest her weary body. She closes her eyes and takes a breath. She smells grime, smog, dust… and smoke.

All she can smell is smoke, and she’s falling.

She dreams of flying, and of the spire above her. From a distance, it looks smooth, but this close, she can see jutting metal and jagged overhangs, gouges and ridges bringing chaos to the form. She traces these in her dream, flying through trenches and between gaps until she reaches the dirty green clouds above. The spire continues up there – where the air goes from choking haze to clear and cold, and the scar in the sky shines bright, even in the day cycle.

That’s where Annath has made his home: an infernal forge that births his growing flock of monsters and serves as his seat of power, from where he can broadcast his baleful psychic influence.

Her consciousness glides down from this spot high above the world, coming to rest again in her prone body. Something in the Eyrie seems to follow it through the clouds, past the walkways, from Hedoro’s highest point to its lowest. A dark shape, formless, featureless, except for grey-purple eyes. They see her, and she knows – they’re coming.

She snaps awake, gasping. Rising unsteadily onto a knee, she pitches forward, her stumbling steps turning into a sprint as she tries to catch up.

The corridor turns once before heading downhill, a precipitous drop that takes her closer to the hive’s true floor: the final layer of yards-thick plascrete separating the hive from the sea it stands above. She rounds a corner, crouches to pass through a grimy metal hatch, and steps out into a vast, human-made canyon.

It’s filthy. Centuries of debris and detritus have created a short-term fossil record of the planet’s history, the forgotten and forsaken things of a collapsing civilisation thrown or dropped into the yawning divide that separates the world’s haves and its have-nots. Palan sees powercells smaller than her finger and refinery scrubbers larger than her childhood home, all rusted and wrecked from neglect, overuse or their lethal fall into the deep underhive. Blobs of unidentifiable matter cling together like seabirds weathering a storm, compacted by the gusts of foetid wind that whip along the artificial valley.

It is the grave of her world. The pit that will eat the corpses of Hedoro’s people and record its doom for Imperial techno-archaeologists to one day find. A planet, dying slowly, until it’s put out of its misery by its greatest son.

She looks up. Incredibly, she can see the sky, framed by criss-crossing walkways linking the spire to the rest of the hive.

There’s a furrow ploughed through the debris, too deliberate and defined to be the random work of the canyon’s wind currents. It leads to an open-faced hangar and a runway, cleared of enough muck and junk to comfortably accommodate the wingspan of her Thunderbolt fighter. At the edge of this impromptu runway, she sees five distinctive lumpen shapes, covered by grey-green cloth. Even two hundred yards away, Palan is enough of an Aeronautica Imperialis pilot to recognise swept-forward wings and a tapered tail.

Lightnings. Four of them.

She’s not a career Lightning pilot – Sword Flight was assigned to Thunderbolts as a rule – but she’s spent enough time with the interceptors during her academy training to get a feel for their handling. They are more agile creatures than Thunderbolts, blessed with outsized plasma engines that allow for rapid turns and vertical take-off.

Her rescuers coalesce in the gloom as she runs: Graz, standing next to the aircraft and assessing their status; Liutgard, sitting on a crate, his legs swinging like a child’s as he pops some indeterminate food into his mouth; Irei, already hunching over a glowing cogitator console that bathes her calm face in ghostly blue light. And… another figure, next to the nearest Lightning. Two figures. Three. Four. She didn’t see them before, but they’re asymmetrical things, hard to get a read on from a distance. More collaborators for Graz’s plan?

The closest figure is repairing the bolts on the fighter’s fuselage, a welding torch in one hand that silhouettes its body with rhythmic bursts of white light. The torch is bolted to the body at the elbow, where the skin of the arm is gnarled, burned and exposed almost to the shoulder, where it’s covered by scraps of familiar material.

She wants to scream her warning, to tell her new collaborators that they need to move, but Palan stops and gulps, her mouth suddenly wet with nauseous saliva.

The material is shredded and fire-blackened, the blue cloth flapping free with each repetitive motion, but there’s no mistaking an Aeronautica Imperialis jumpsuit. Nor the patch on the shoulder, even from behind: a fan of twelve long blades, set against the Imperial aquila. It’s the same as the one on Palan’s shoulder right now.

Sword Flight.

She steps closer, spurred on by sick curiosity. The figure coalesces in the half-light. The top of the skull is missing entirely, the skin pulled back to expose a grisly goblet of bone. The brain inside is held in place with a leather strap, the meat of the thing spiked with metal rods that coruscate with tiny flashes of blue lightning, each pulse in time with the motion of the welding torch. The jaw is square, frosted with grey stubble and completely slack. A purple tongue hangs over blackening lips. Viscous liquid dribbles from inside the mouth.

A patch adorns the left breast. In small script, it reads: Flight Leader Arguen Ba.

She can see now how such a small group of people was able to repair a squadron without attracting Annath’s attention. Servitors, fresh bodies sourced from those who were hurled against the air marshal’s stronghold, recovered and put back to work by Graz and her tech-adept. Broken things made useful again, just as the Lightnings have been. She retches.

Wet drool falls from the slack mouth as Ba’s corpse continues to weld mismatched plates. Palan realises she can hear the tortured brain behind its vacant expression. It’s a hissing sound, like static across the vox, or a scream through a slashed throat.

‘Your squadron might have failed, girl,’ Graz says, over her shoulder. ‘But they have been most useful in their afterlife.’

Palan turns and wails, her pain and loss channelled into an animal sound that reverberates off the rockcrete walls. ‘You monster,’ she spits, aiming her anger at the inquisitor. ‘You murderer, you, you, you…’ She searches for the worst thing she can say. ‘You heretic.’

Graz’s hand moves faster than Palan can follow and comes up with an ornate bolt pistol. It’s aimed at Palan’s head, a finger tight to the trigger. ‘I do not need a reason to kill you, girl,’ the inquisitor says, her voice harsh with contempt. ‘Were this blighted planet part of the Imperium Sanctus, I would be excommunicated for even allowing you to live.’

She starts to say more, but she’s interrupted by a bang. Dust falls from the back of the makeshift hangar, disturbed for the first time in centuries. Another bang, and Palan can hear the faint sound of chanting, coming through the wall behind them.

‘I came to tell you,’ Palan says, the bile in her throat making her voice even harsher. ‘They’ve found us.’

‘They found you,’ Graz responds. ‘If we suffer the witch to live, this is our punishment.’

The inquisitor checks her bolt pistol and calls out, ‘Liutgard. Irei. We move. Take firing positions and prepare to lift off as soon as–’

There’s another monstrous impact on the other side of the wall, and the rhythmic thumping is joined by the sound of falling rubble as a claw as long as a lascannon smashes through the rockcrete partition. The claw pulls out, bringing masonry with it, and leaving a hole large enough for a man to squeeze through.

A face appears at the hole, head shaved, eyes wild. It stays long enough for Palan to discern spidery tattoos snaking from forehead to chin before Graz’s bolt pistol barks and the head explodes. Almost immediately it’s replaced by another, and just as quickly, the inquisitor bursts that one too, her perfect shot hitting the cultist in the dead centre of the eight-pointed star carved into his forehead.

The inquisitor’s bolt pistol may be unerring, but Palan doesn’t need psychic intervention to know it won’t be enough. Already the creature on the other side of the wall is creating new gaps in the rockcrete, digging out holes like a worm in the dirt for Annath’s crazed followers to squirm through. Liutgard joins the combat, hefting a long-barrelled lasrifle from a battered supply crate and dropping to one knee, before lancing a shot through the heart of a cultist that had managed to get his upper body through a makeshift entrance. A fourth hole opens up, and then a fifth. A few cultists make it through, wriggling their way into the hangar.

The inquisitor’s magazine clicks dry, and she’s up on her feet, striding towards the oncoming horde. She moves economically, swatting a gibbering woman aside with a clenched fist and shanking another with a short, wide knife. A third, his Astra Militarum jumpsuit daubed with vile glyphs, lunges for her with a pockmarked cleaver. She turns the blade in flight, twists it across his midriff, and is already stomping past him as he spits blood and curses into the hangar floor.

Liutgard rises, pivoting smoothly on his planted foot before tucking into a neat roll that ducks the wild swing of the nearest fanatic. He pulls a small laspistol from his hip and, in one fluid motion, places it under the man’s chin and pulls the trigger. Smoke swirls from the roof of the cultist’s superheated skull as Liutgard spins the pistol around his finger and buries it back in its holster.

Still they come. A cultist breaks off from the pack and starts cavorting towards Palan, swinging a metal bar in wide, lunatic arcs. Palan back-pedals, trying to get something solid between her bruised body and her oncoming attacker, but the fanatic is closing the distance, close enough now that Palan can hear his gibbering – the sound of a mind broken by Annath’s screeched curses and debased proclamations.

And then that gibbering is cut short, the cultist’s upper body disintegrated by the detonation of a bolt pistol round. Palan looks over to Graz, but the inquisitor has already turned back to the throng, reloaded bolt pistol firing again.

‘Hey!’ Liutgard shouts, his braids swinging as he turns. ‘Maybe try using this?’

He kicks at a discarded autopistol, and she scrabbles for the weapon. It’s wrapped in filthy rags and scratched with symbols she doesn’t understand, but it fires, and one, two, three slugs rip through the torso of another attacker.

There’s no time for relief as the huge thing on the other side of the wall slams another sharp talon through the rockcrete and rips downwards, tearing out enough of the material to let the majority of its horrible bulk through. The nightmare creature scuttles forward on spidery legs of black metal, pulling its bulbous armoured abdomen through the hole and bringing down the rest of the wall in its wake. Behind it, more cultists swarm in from service corridors.

‘Shoot it!’ the inquisitor shouts.

Graz and Liutgard refocus their fire on this new target, joined for the first time by Irei. The tech-adept has produced a plasma pistol from somewhere inside her robes, and is firing it at a methodical pace, still chanting in a low tone as globs of superheated blue flame slam into the creature’s armour. Palan levels her stolen pistol and squeezes off the rest of the clip, but the shots clang off the creature’s thick armour.

It’s not enough.

‘Fall back,’ the inquisitor barks.

Palan follows orders, back-pedalling until she hits something solid. A Lightning.

She has an idea. She turns and digs her toes into footholds along the craft’s side, springing with practised grace onto the wing. With a smooth motion, she yanks open the cockpit canopy and drops feet first into its seat. The Lightning is shut down for repairs and cold, but like all of Hedoro’s Aeronautica Imperialis cadets, she has trained for this.

She remembers Arguen Ba shaking her awake. ‘Scramble drill!’ the old man would shout. ‘Get to your craft, get in the sky!’ Only when she was sitting in the cockpit of her Thunderbolt, weapons hot and engines whining for the release of launch, would she fully waken – just in time for Ba to call time on the exercise and berate the cadets for their slow reaction speed.

She powers up the Lightning now, watching as the fighter’s ghostly green cogitator flicks on, as buttons and dials light up in sequence. Outside the cockpit, the monster swats cackling cultists aside as it skitters towards its prize, but Palan’s eyes are glued to the Lightning’s control panel. She’s waiting for one indicator to flash active.

Engine, hydraulics, targeting, lascannons.

There it is.

She squeezes the flight stick’s trigger, and two beams of searing light leap from the Lightning’s wing-mounted weapons.

Even with the cockpit’s glare shielding, it takes Palan’s eyes a moment to adjust. When they do, she sees a gaping wound in the beast’s abdomen, exposing charred pink flesh, chunks of gristle and spurs of metallic bone. Fluid cascades down its side from loose organic cabling, something between blood and acid that sizzles and spits as it touches the floor. A group of cultists are caught in the discharge and die screaming, their robes, then skin, then organs eaten away by unholy venom.

The creature sways to the side, eight legs struggling to support its newly unbalanced body. Palan squeezes the trigger again. The second lascannon blast punches a hole right through it and its legs give out, sending it collapsing to the floor in a growing pool of its own daemonic viscera.

‘Repairs complete,’ Irei says, her voice already patched to the Lightning’s vox-caster.

Liutgard is the first to move, dodging scattered autogun fire as he crouch-runs to the furthest Lightning. Irei follows, taking the time to tip a small bow to her cogitator before disengaging from the terminal. The tech-adept effortlessly navigates the now crowded hangar, seeming to float over corpses and detritus like a phantom. The inquisitor moves last. She turns and strides towards the Lightning most recently repaired, elbowing a servitor out of the way as she mounts the craft’s wing. The cyborg crumples as it hits the floor.

A second later, her voice crackles over the vox.

‘Launch.’

Palan reaches down, punches in the commands that prepare the Lightning for vertical take-off, and guns the engines. The hangar floor falls away as plasma ramjets ignite, blasting the four Lightnings into the befouled air. Graz’s voice comes over the vox again a moment later, clipped and precise.

‘Well done, witch.’

Through the glass of the cockpit, she watches as the servitor that was Arguen Ba gets smaller and smaller, until it’s swallowed up by the horde, and then – finally – disappears into the darkness at the bottom of the world.

‘What shall we call ourselves?’ Liutgard asks over the vox, breaking the tense silence that has descended on the group.

They’re flying almost vertically, four Lightnings in loose formation, their bellies pressed against the uneven surface of the spire. Four Lightnings, out to topple a despot, their cockpits filled with an inquisitor, a tech-adept, a dandy, and a…

What is Palan now? She is a pilot. She is a witch, Graz has said. She is a child of Hedoro. She is in pain, scared and so very tired.

No, she is a Sword. Her squadron has been shattered, broken down almost to the hilt, but as long as she lives, its killing edge remains. A blade to Annath’s throat.

‘Knife Flight,’ she says over the vox.

‘Knife Flight,’ Liutgard repeats. ‘I like it.’

There’s silence from her new comrades for a beat, and then, from Graz’s Lightning: ‘Knife Flight, form up on me.’

Together, they ascend, so close to the superstructure that their plasma wash scorches the walls and windows of the upper-class hab-blocks that make up the lower portion of the spire. Further up, Palan can see the uniform edges of the refinery city as they fall away to the thick green sea, and then nothing but clouds. Hedoro’s clouds are dense and grimy, stuck in an endless cycle of absorbing the filth from the refineries and raining it back down into the sludge below.

She doesn’t hear it at first, over the din, but Annath’s screeched broadcasts are being joined by another infernal sound. Heldrakes, roosting in the Eyrie, have spotted the four fighters. She sees them too, silhouetted against the unhealthy pink glow of the Great Rift, their wings tucked back to their bronze-edged bodies. They fall like artillery shells, trailing billowing clouds of smoke, and it’s not long before they’re in weapons range.

Graz strikes first, autocannon fire ripping holes in the metal hide of the foremost Heldrake in the flight. Irei and Liutgard lend their own ammunition to the fusillade, shells and las-beams forming a withering hail of fire to thin the flock before it can reach its ideal close-combat range.

Palan squeezes the trigger on her fighter’s flight stick and allows herself a second of triumph as she scores a direct lascannon hit on a Heldrake, but her excitement is cut short when a talon tears through her Lightning’s canopy, shearing metal and cracking glass. Suddenly she’s freezing cold, her barrier between the outside elements smashed by the monster that’s still clamped to her fighter. Irei blazes past, autocannon flashing. It’s enough to scare the Heldrake off, but not before its claw rakes again, puncturing the engine housing. There’s a clunk, followed by an eerie silence, as the Lightning’s plasma ramjet gives out.

Her climb doesn’t end suddenly, but slowly, and – for a moment – she hangs weightless. Above: the black-blue of the atmosphere, a fragile bubble holding her world in. Below: bank after bank of sickly, green-tinged clouds.

Breathe. The command comes unbidden from the deep recesses of her mind. Not the gnawing, cloying voice of portent, but the hardwired part of her brain that had been destroyed and rebuilt by academy training. Fix your mask, and breathe. It is Arguen Ba’s voice. Palan sucks a lungful of air, drawing it out of her mask and down her throat. It’s icy cold and stings her chest. You’re hanging now. That means you’ll be falling soon.

She starts to fall.

Palan had grown up to see the sky as a friend, but it rakes its claws down her as she sits in her cracked cockpit, pulling at her hair and trying to tear her arms from the stick. Her Lightning starts to spin. The sun – once a comforting pale disc – becomes a greasy comet, its tail of wan yellow light growing longer and longer.

Breathe, and brace. She straightens her legs, locking herself into place, and then pulls on the flight stick against the spin. Cables feed the directional inputs down the Lightning’s fuselage to its wings, where flaps realign and directional thrusters fire.

It’s working. The sun starts to re-form into its familiar circle as the Lightning relaxes into a nose-first dive towards the clouds below. Up becomes up again, down becomes down. Up was sky, and down was… what, exactly?

Down, she sees, is death. Below her, a cavernous mouth opens. It’s attached to the body of a dragon, bifold metal wings aiming it straight up in an impossibly steep climb. Palan takes in the image: red eyes set in dark iron, a hull flecked with oil, blackened by smoke like the sludge rigs that power the world below.

The smokestack mouth snaps once, licking with flame. And then the monster is falling too. From behind, Liutgard’s Lightning hurtles into view, lascannons pulsing. The first shot tears through the Heldrake’s right wing; the second punches through its neck, separating its head from its shoulders. Palan sees the flames gutter in its throat, sees the unhealthy light in its eyes fade, and watches its terrible maw slacken as it joins her in her fall, trailing pitch-black ichor. Together, they hit the green clouds.

She can’t see a thing, the thick, polluted drifts obscuring her hand in front of her face. She claws at the control panel, trying to restart the engines through feel alone, but the cold has numbed her fingers, undoing years of training. She closes her eyes, and feels instead with her mind.

Not there. Not there. There.

She pushes the button and pulls the lever at her hip. There’s a coughing whirr, the engine as discombobulated by the spin as she is, and she pulls again. The whirr turns into a roar and her Lightning kicks into life, punching through the top of the clouds and scattering the greenish wisps like viscera from an exit wound.

Liutgard tucks in alongside her as they speed towards the spire, aiming to lose their hunters amongst the pipes, landing pads and other obstacles on its surface. Palan releases a breath she doesn’t realise she’s been holding in, and it turns to mist in the icy air of her cockpit.

‘Thanks,’ she shouts over the vox, trying to stop herself from throwing up.

‘I think,’ Liutgard replies, his voice somehow maintaining its sense of amused detachment, ‘that despite what our friend the inquisitor may say, you would have done the same for me.’

‘Silence,’ Graz instructs as they form up on her wing. ‘Target ahead.’

She’s so cold, but she’s almost there. The Eyrie rises on Palan’s tilted horizon: a bulbous, soot-stained thing that mars the top of the spire like a vast tumour. Huge chimneys, wider than a Thunderbolt’s launch tube, belch smoke and fire out into the high atmosphere, long jets of flame that somehow look small against the city-sized structure.

She’s used to the mid-mission chatter of an Aeronautica Imperialis squadron, but in the absence of interjections from her squadron mates, Palan can hear profane voices chittering through the voxphones, growing louder as she gets closer to Annath’s high throne. There are words in there, but they dance at the edge of understanding, tingling her nerve endings and clouding her mind.

They join with other sounds to make a discordant orchestra that’s almost unbearable. Heldrakes shriek as they wheel through the air. Their piercing cries are set to the beat of the rhythmic pounding from the forge within, a whump-whump-whump of infernal machinery. But louder than all is Annath himself. So close to the source of the booming broadcasts that plague the minds of Hedoro’s citizens, the air itself seems to shiver, wavering under the sonic assault.

It’s coming from inside the Eyrie.

They’re close enough now to feel the heat of the forge inside, and Palan stretches her fingers, coaxing blood back into her numbed extremities. She looks up, past the fractures in her canopy, and sees the entrance: a cavernous hole in the spire’s peak, lined with stalactites and stalagmites of twisted metal like teeth fringing a predator’s maw. More Heldrakes soar from the opening, their birdlike heads scanning for the smaller Lightnings, while others glide in to land, talons clawing the ground as they come to a stop. It’s an unholy fortress, larger than she could have imagined, stronger than she could have feared. How can they bring down such a stronghold with only four repaired interceptors?

‘How in His name are we going to bring this down?’ Liutgard asks, giving voice to Palan’s unspoken question.

‘Calculations show the fortress’ armour is thicker than these crafts’ Icarus-pattern lascannons can penetrate,’ Irei says, her voice still sing-song over the tainted vox.

Suddenly, Palan knows. ‘We have to go inside,’ she says, the words feeling ludicrous on her tongue even as she speaks them.

‘What?’ yelps Liutgard, his trepidation evident even through the heavy distortion.

‘She’s right,’ Graz confirms, sounding more sure than Palan is. ‘Irei, Liutgard, fly interference – keep the daemons’ attention. The witch and I will end this.’

As in all things, the inquisitor takes the lead. Her Lightning climbs until it’s almost past the upper lip of the entrance, before she throws it into a full loop that launches her past the clustered Heldrakes and spurs of corrupted metal, and deep into the Eyrie’s interior. Palan leans on the throttle, and her engine whines, straining in the thin atmosphere. Heldrakes on her tail fall away, outpaced by the faster fighter, and she lines up her approach into the belching, toothed maw. Then she, too, is inside.

Annath’s Eyrie is a warren of tunnels and antechambers, like the nest of some colony of giant insects, and Palan has to be quick on the stick in the narrow confines. As she ventures further into the remnants of the spire’s pinnacle, the walls grow thick with what looks disturbingly like meat – organic matter gouged and carved into shape by the claws of the monsters that dwell within. She can’t see Graz’s Lightning, but she’s sure she’s following the inquisitor’s engine wash, twisting tunnels finally leading towards her goal: the heart of Annath’s lair.

The space is huge – large enough for Heldrakes to roost in the shadows above, their blackened bodies lit by a pit of molten, bubbling metal at the centre of the chamber. Pipes lead from the pit, coiling around machines of brass and iron, before they trail into auxiliary tanks, each large enough to birth a Heldrake. At the centre of this infernal foundry rises a throne – huge and hewn from dark stone, surrounded by a bank of cogitators blinking with eight-pointed runes. It offers a panopticon for its owner to oversee the subjugation of a world.

In that throne sits Konnaster Annath.

Gone is the proud man that Hedoro knew. The thing in the chair is an abomination: a fusion of blotchy red skin and blackened metal plate. The head is stretched beyond reason, the jaw as long as a human arm, with teeth jutting from a mouth that opens vertically as well as horizontally. Like his pets, Annath has wings, but where the Heldrakes’ are adamantium hard, Annath’s are ragged and leathery, elongated finger bones ending in wickedly curving points.

It’s the body of a monster, but it was once human. She knows by the eyes: grey-purple, burning coldly. She can see them even from her ruined cockpit.

Nokori… Palan… a voice in her mind says, unctuous and sickening.

You came.

Smoke overtakes her vision, and she’s falling. Not out of the sky this time, but out of her own body, her consciousness spiralling away from the flesh-and-blood shell that holds it as Annath exerts his psychic will. She watches herself, a passenger now, as her hands curl around the flight stick.

Her mind screams with psychic warnings, and she lives a hundred deaths in a fraction of a second. She feels her bones break, her flesh tear, and still her Lightning flies on, her hands locked to the stick between her rigid knees. Annath whispers in her mind, and she feels nerve endings ignite, instructions travelling down her spine, her arms, to her cold, cold fingers to fire – to fire on Graz. The nose of her Lightning tips up, and her targeting reticule locates the inquisitor on the other side of the expanse. Her fingers squeeze the trigger.

The inquisitor dodges, tipping her Lightning on its side to avoid twin lascannon blasts. The errant beams slam into a storage tank, carving two neat holes into the corroded metal that promptly start to ooze with oily black liquid. Palan’s fingers squeeze the trigger again, but the inquisitor anticipates the attack, kicking her Lightning into a spin that flits her out of Palan’s targeting reticule and into a side tunnel.

Palan’s Lightning pulls away, and she thinks, for a blessed moment, that Annath has relinquished his control on her body. It is not to be. Puppeting Palan’s body, the air marshal launches the Lightning down an adjacent tunnel, and she knows that he is sending her on a collision course.

The tunnel curves, first left, then right, its confines tight enough that Palan can see its walls weeping with a ruddy ichor, before it continues straight and she sees the inquisitor, a few hundred yards away, flying directly for her. She feels her hands twitch, almost imperceptible motions matching manoeuvres with Graz’s oncoming Lightning. She knows that in such a small space evasion is almost impossible.

She lets herself drift, body and mind separated: a passive observer as foregone conclusions wait to play out. She doesn’t feel the pain in her ribs any more, at least. Her battered body is beyond her ken now. She doesn’t feel much of anything at all. Time slows down, and she reminisces about the life that’s surely about to end, and the man that’s ending it.

She remembers the air marshal on parade after he personally led Hedoro’s fighter wings in the Battle of Refinery 48. She remembers listening intently as the older cadets recounted stories of how he became the youngest ace in Hedoro’s history, describing each dogfight in wild detail.

But most of all, she remembers him as Arguen Ba saw him. The old man, pride tugging at the corner of his lips, presenting the children he had moulded into pilots. Those same lips are now slack, corpse grey, crusted with drying fluid.

She starts to feel… something. It’s a kernel of anger. She holds on to it, draws on it and feels the smoke start to recede.

Her scream starts in her mind and finds purchase first in her throat, where it becomes a low groan. She concentrates, and it builds to a shout, then a shriek, as she wrests back control of her neck, her shoulders, her arms and then – finally – her hands.

Grey-purple eyes widen for a moment, and then they’re gone from her mind.

She yanks on her flight stick, pushing her Lightning down and out of the path of the inquisitor’s oncoming fighter. Her right wing scrapes against the floor, ploughing a furrow in the wet fleshy surface. She overcorrects, careening upwards and smashing the tail off on an outcropping of warped metal. The Lightning’s rear half buckles, and suddenly she’s flying a brick. She closes her eyes for impact, and hits the ground.

Her Lightning bounces once, twice, and is thrown up against the side of the curving tunnel and out into the huge main chamber. It’s skidding now, across the floor of the daemon forge, squealing metal and shooting sparks in its wake, before it comes to a halt with a crunch against a vast machine that’s clanking and bubbling with superheated fluid.

Palan unbuckles her flight webbing with shaking hands and gingerly crawls over the shattered glass of her canopy. She half slides, half falls to the floor below, landing hard on her left leg and feeling the impact in her side. If her rib wasn’t broken before, it certainly is now. She turns to scan the vast chamber and sees only monsters. Up above, Heldrakes silhouetted in flight against the impossibly distant ceiling. On the ground, Annath, her fallen hero in his throne.

The air marshal stands and unfurls his wings with a leisurely shake. He was always tall, but God-Emperor, now he is huge. Too-long legs bend backwards, two sets of knee joints bending and straightening as he brings himself to his full height, before crouching again, swollen muscles bunching.

He leaps, gliding on those dragon’s wings and coming to rest on Palan’s side of the molten moat. Through the shimmering air she meets his gaze, just as she did in the academy, those same grey-purple eyes now set into a beast’s head. She hears him snorting, snarling, sees his fanged mouth working, the maw opening vertically and horizontally, too many teeth preventing it from ever shutting entirely. He’s trying to say something, she realises.

She knows what it is.

‘Nokori… Palan…’

She hears it twice: once in a guttural drawl from the monster in front of her; once in the smooth, slightly amused voice of Konnaster Annath. She feels a hollowness in her heart when she realises both are the same.

‘I saved this world, Nokori. I love this world. I wanted to share my gift – our gift – with everyone. But they didn’t understand.’ The monster’s jaw has trouble with the word, and Palan sees red foam running down his bulging neck.

‘Not like you, Nokori. When I first saw you, I knew you would understand. You could hear them too, I could see. The guidance from above, the voices from the scar in the sky, the whispers in the dark.’

Palan thinks she can’t move, but she winces involuntarily at the thought of the Great Rift.

‘Come to me. I love this world. You love this world. The Emperor cannot save it. We can save it. Together.’

This world. What was left for her on this world? Her father, a long-faded memory. Her teacher, a desecrated corpse. Her hero, a monster.

She’s on the other side of grey-purple eyes, looking across an academy floor. An old man fusses in front of his students, adjusting uniforms and straightening stances.

So prim and proper. So much pride. A shame that they all must die.

All of them, except one. A girl, short, nervous, but her dark eyes burning with something strong, something wise, something… familiar.

Oh, the owner of the eyes thinks, I can use her.

‘No,’ she says.

Annath growls, the sound rumbling the Eyrie’s heat-blackened metal floor, and shapes to leap for her. Palan braces herself for the end. But it doesn’t come – not yet. From above, over the din, Palan thinks she hears the familiar chuntering of a plasma engine. It’s getting louder.

Graz peels out of a side passage and, in the same second, opens fire on the thing that was Annath, puncturing the thin skin of his wings with a salvo of autocannon shells. The monster wavers, his intended trajectory interrupted, and Graz follows up with a blast from her lascannons. Twin beams slam into Annath’s body, searing desecrated flesh down to the bone, before the inquisitor is gone again, chased by Heldrakes.

Palan has a moment – the inquisitor has bought her that much. She clings tightly to the thought of her squadron mates, of poor old Arguen Ba, of the world she calls home, and she tries something she’s never tried before. She tenses every tired muscle in her body and pushes out with her mind.

A wave of invisible force pushes Annath back a pace. It’s not enough to knock him off balance, but his surprise is clear, even on his mangled face. He stalks forward again, two steps forward to the one enforced step back, but Palan plants her feet, grits her teeth, and the champion of the Ruinous Powers finds he can’t go any further. The young pilot holds her hand out in front of her face and squeezes, projecting that image forward with all of her remaining strength.

He pushes against the psychic barrier again, and Palan feels a blood vessel burst in her eye. She’s sweating. The heat of the daemon forge is almost unbearable, and the effort it takes to stop Annath from breaking through and tearing her limb from limb is pushing her bruised body to its limits. Rivulets of perspiration run down her forehead and into her eyes. She sees sparks of white light dance across her fingers, and smoke seeps into the edge of her vision.

She’s fading.

And then two beams lance out of the darkness, hitting Annath in his rune-scarred chest. Overhead, Graz’s Lightning screams past again, pursued by four, five, six Heldrakes. Annath tries to stand but he’s blasted again, lascannons searing flesh as Liutgard’s Lightning rolls between storage tanks, opening up with its main armaments.

‘They came back…’ Palan gasps, marvelling to no one.

Annath digs claws into the floor in a bid to stand, but Irei is here too, now, her fighter spitting from a side tunnel like a round from a stub gun. The tech-adept hits Annath again and again and again, peppering the monster with raking beams from her weapons until he drops to his knees, singed wings curled around his body as a shield against the assault.

Her head is pounding so hard she can barely stand. She waits a beat. She opens her thoughts, waiting for a sign. She gets it.

NOW.

Palan pushes with her mind, channelling all her rage and pain, and the crumpled creature that was her hero is launched backwards as if caught in a hurricane, toppling head over clawed heels.

He hits molten metal and squeals as he burns, a terrible sound that batters Palan’s eardrums and rattles her bones, but she keeps up the psychic onslaught. Clenching a fist, she pushes the air marshal down, down under the bubbling surface, down until his flesh burns away and his bones scorch to cinders, down until there’s nothing left of Konnaster Annath but his foul memory.

And then, for Nokori Palan, the world goes dark.

This time it must truly be death. There are no saints, no comfort, just the stink of sulphur, the cracking sounds of countless small fires, and pain. So much pain. Part of her embraces it: after so many deaths, this is finally the one she’s not coming back from.

But then she feels hands on her arms as her broken body is pulled up. She feels motion, her feet scraping limp against the floor as she’s half dragged, half carried somewhere. Another impact as she’s thrown against something hard, and then she hears a familiar whirring sound.

Once more, she opens her eyes. She sees a low metal ceiling, a bank of cogitators, and lasrifles racked against the wall, and recognises the interior of a Valkyrie gunship. The engines are straining, Palan can tell, the result of a steep dive at the limits of operational velocity.

‘We really must stop meeting like this,’ Liutgard says, one hand wrapped around the craft’s wall-mounted crash webbing. Palan shapes her mouth to respond, but is cut short by Graz. The inquisitor grabs Palan by the lapels of her scorched flight suit and pulls her head from the gunship’s floor, bringing them face to face.

‘If you fire on me again, girl, I will shoot you down myself,’ she says, ice-chip eyes radiant with cold anger.

She releases her grip, and Palan’s head slams back to the decking.

‘This facility is powering down.’ Irei’s voice comes from the pilot’s seat. ‘Catastrophic failures in the core superstructures render the top thirty-two per cent of the spire unstable. Detonation in three, two, one…’

Palan sees the explosion framed through the Valkyrie’s open door. The Eyrie bursts like a boil, its outer structure bowed outwards by a blast that sends a torrent of molten metal into the upper atmosphere, where it’s joined by a halo of debris. Heldrakes caught close to the explosion are melted, their sharpened wings reforming into lumpen shapes that have no hope of flight. Those further out are perforated by shrapnel, or have their bodies crushed by larger pieces of what once was Hedoro’s spire. They all fall like shot birds.

A moment later the shockwave hits the gunship, and Palan has to dig her fingers into the ridged floor to avoid sliding out of the open hatch. She secures herself in place, wedging a foot against a support column, and grimaces against the pain, determined to see what was left of the Eyrie fall. And fall it does: the top third of the spire topples down through the thick clouds, taking the body of Konnaster Annath to his grave in the trench far below.

And then, through the gunship’s door, she just sees sky. Cold, dark, welcoming sky, and in it, high above, a pale purple smear. She focuses on it, and hears a voice from its depths.

COME TO ME.

RECONGREGATOR

David Annandale

Another radical from the Ordo Xenos, Inquisitor Otto Dagover is a figure whose reputation precedes him. His relentless and obsessive pursuit of the so-called ‘Heretic Saint’, Ephrael Stern, has led him to some benighted corners of the galaxy, as this report will affirm. Here he is seen battling in the void against forces from a rival ordo as well as the twisted aliens known as the drukhari, and employing most controversial and unorthodox methods to thwart his foe and continue his pursuit of Stern. My lord may find the way Dagover directly addresses his quarry disturbing, and a cause for further examination of Dagover’s movements.

Lord Inquisitor Otto Dagover to Ephrael Stern:

This was about six months before I found you in the Imperium Nihilus. I did not know where you were, but I was confident that I was on your trail. You cut a swath through the darkness, Sister Superior. I learned to recognise the signs of your passage, and I don’t think you appreciate the kind they were. You experienced the fury and the destruction of the battle against the Ruinous Powers. You did not stay for the aftermath. And that aftermath was order. Stability. A chance for the system to draw breath and reknit itself, perhaps become stronger.

I don’t say certainly. I say perhaps. But perhaps is better than extinction, don’t you think?

I want to make something clear. I know my reputation. I know what is thought of those of us who call ourselves Recongregators. You may well share that opinion. The truth is you may be more like us than you think. No, no, there’s no need to protest. I won’t try to convince you. Not this time, at any rate. What I want you to understand is that those who think we act only to destroy are wrong. Our destruction is creative, as a forest fire is the catalyst for renewal. The Imperium is not what it could be, and what it must be, if our species hopes to survive.

Please remember that this principle governs all of my decisions, and all of my actions.

So. To my tale, then.

Aboard my battle cruiser, the Iudex Ferox, I arrived in the Sacramentum System. It was one in which the transmissions from its primus world were relatively orderly – not a constant scream for help. There are too many systems on that side of the Cicatrix Maledictum where there are no transmissions at all. Something had happened to bring order here, and that something, I was certain, was you. My intention was to make for Sacramentum Primus, to see what I could learn, get a sense of when you had passed through, and where you might have gone next. There was rarely anything useful to glean, but the effort was a necessary one.

I never made it to Primus. The Iudex Ferox was crossing the mid-system asteroid belt when my vox-officer intercepted a distress call from the mining habitat Anaphora. It had been the victim, apparently, of a drukhari raid.

I could not ignore this cry. I am an inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos after all, even if the conditions in the Imperium Nihilus frequently meant that the battles I fought would normally have been the remit of my comrades in the Ordo Malleus. During most of the long years I was trapped in the Imperium Nihilus, xenos depredations were the least of the problems there.

Here, though, was a system that appeared to be reasserting itself, and this was a threat I was sworn to investigate. And who knew? Perhaps fate or the Emperor was pointing me to a location that might have some information about you.

As it transpired, neither fate nor the Emperor had anything to do with my arrival on Anaphora.

I ordered a hail and acknowledgment sent to the habitat, and the Iudex Ferox docked with it four hours later, next to a resupply freighter. Anaphora was a disordered conglomeration of cylindrical and disc-shaped habitat units linked by a tangle of communication tubes. It sat between three captured asteroids like a spider’s web. The planetoids, each no more than a few tens of miles in diameter, formed the points of an elongated triangle, and were held by the mining pylons of Anaphora. These drilling assemblages, the size of a manufactory, plunged like daggers deep into the surface of the asteroids. The docking hub was part of the command unit, the largest of the discs, positioned at the approximate centre of the web.

My crew was a mere skeleton of what it had been, and I left my ship alone. My power armour gives me little to fear, as well as keeping this ruin of a body of mine alive. On the other side of the airlock there was a welcoming party waiting for me. At its head was the commander of Anaphora, Hera Misharin. She took half a step back when she saw me. I am used to this reaction. I don’t know I can say that I am as feared as you are, Sister Superior Stern, but I am not a welcome figure. I know the effect of this dead face of mine, of my pointed teeth, of my lips and the mechanised hooks I use to move them. I flatter myself that when people have bad dreams about the Inquisition, I am the figure they see. We have to take our pleasures where we find them, don’t you think?

Misharin did manage to recover herself fairly quickly. ‘We are grateful that you are here, lord inquisitor,’ she said.

I did not accuse her for lying. No one has ever been grateful for the presence of the Inquisition. ‘You have been attacked by the drukhari,’ I said. I have no patience for ceremonies, except when I can put them to useful ends.

‘We believe so.’

‘You believe so?’

‘We’re not sure. There were no surviving witnesses to the attack. Sacramentum Primus needs to know definitively one way or the other before they commit any of the system’s forces to this position.’

‘I see. Then show me where the attack occurred.’

We headed off through the maze of habitat units and communication tubes towards the damaged unit, which was one of the drill operation modules.

The corridors of Anaphora were typical prefab crudities. Their plasteel walls were emblazoned with the aquila, though there was little other adornment. Their ceilings were vaulted but low, barely two feet above my head. The grime of years of mining work was deeply engrained into every texture of the station, as it was in the pores of the people who ran it.

I did think that Anaphora was an unusual target for a drukhari raid. The only resources to be plundered here were mineral, and of a mundane nature at that. There could not have been more than a few hundred souls on the station – perhaps worth enslaving, but I had trouble seeing what would have drawn the xenos pirates here. Even then, my estimate of a hundred was a generous guess; we crossed paths with almost no one as we made our way to the damaged module.

‘How many dead?’ I asked.

‘Ten,’ said Misharin.

Again, that seemed odd. The raid struck me as rather pointless. Still, the commander and her crew were clearly on edge. They were brittle, fragile. I saw no strength in them at all. I didn’t think they were worthy of the chance you had given them. If the Imperium is to rebuild itself, then it cannot rely on its saviours.

The door to the mining module was sealed. Misharin and her cohorts stood back from it, waiting for me to take the next step. They had all turned pale. They feared what was on the other side.

‘They’re not likely to come back and attack empty corridors,’ I said.

They looked cowed, and as frightened of me as they were of phantom drukhari.

Useless, I thought, and turned to the door. ‘Is there atmosphere on the other side, at least?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ said Misharin. ‘We patched up the hull, but that’s all. The module is unstable.’

‘All right. Wait here for my return.’ I tapped the control panel. The door slid up. I entered the corridor beyond and shut the door behind me.

The module housed the controls of the mining engines. It was a single wide chamber, with the control stations lining the walls. They were massive iron assemblages of levers, hinting at the scale of the machines they commanded. Power conduits ran from the stations and through the wall at the far end. There was a small access hatch at its centre, but the wall was otherwise a thick slab, safely isolating the workers from the monstrous drills on the other side.

That, at any rate, was how things were supposed to work. It was immediately apparent what Misharin had meant when she said the module was unstable. There were cracks in the protective wall. All work here had stopped, but the machines were restless. At irregular intervals, there were heavy bangs, as of a huge creature trying to break through its prison, and the wall trembled. The solidified foam patches covering gouges in the side walls held, but the cracks in the barrier facing the asteroid were spreading.

Blood had sprayed everywhere in the chamber. It slicked the floor and controls. It was spattered across the ceiling. Corpses lay in pieces, cut so fine that it was hard to tell how many dead there were. The elegance of the slices and the enthusiasm of the slaughter had the earmarks of a drukhari attack, that much was true. Monofilament weaponry had been used on the victims. The slaughter looked like the drukhari had been here. It felt wrong, though.

‘What was the point of this?’ I muttered.

The scene suggested the xenos raiders had come, killed everyone in this hall, and then left. Why bother? As far as I could see, they hadn’t taken any captives. The drukhari enjoy a good massacre, but their cruelty is rarely simple. It is refined. There were no complexities in what I saw. It was theatre dressing. I didn’t believe it.

I finished my examination of the module and started back to the exit. I had questions for Misharin and her crew, and I didn’t think they were going to enjoy them. I was halfway there when there was a series of muffled explosions beyond the barrier wall, and then it blew in. I crouched low, protecting my head as chunks of three-foot-thick plasteel flew across the chamber. Conduits exploded out of the side walls, filling the space with live steam and flammable lubricant. The fluid ignited, and a firestorm swept over me, devouring oxygen.

Wreckage surrounded me. I punched through it, fighting to reach the door. The flames died quickly, and I could hear the hiss of escaping atmosphere. I pulled out my rebreather from my armour’s belt and donned it. I reached the door, and was not surprised to find it would not open. I took a krak grenade, fastened it to the door, then drew back. The blast melted the door, and I charged through, just ahead of the foam sealant that poured out of ceiling nozzles, cutting off the ruined, breached limb of Anaphora.

The lumen strips in the corridor flickered, and stayed dull. Smoke drifted. There was no sign of Misharin and the others. They would have retreated when they heard the explosions, of course. But when I tried to contact Misharin on the station’s vox-channel, there was no answer.

I switched to the Iudex Ferox’s channel. ‘Vox,’ I said, ‘do you have communications with anyone on Anaphora?’

No answer from my ship, either.

I marched down the hall to the connecting tube, making for the command module. That was also the most direct route back to the Iudex Ferox. I saw no one. The farther I went, the more I was convinced the station was deserted. Partway to my goal, I found a viewport that looked towards the docking bays. The battle cruiser was there, undamaged from what I could see. The supply ship, though, was gone.

I moved on, more warily now. I drew my plasma pistol. I ran through scenarios, looking for an explanation. I had fallen into a trap. But a trap set by whom? The drukhari? Had they chosen this moment to come back, load the remaining crew onto the freighter, and abscond with them? That seemed unlikely. No, the trap had been designed for me, and the idea that the drukhari had prepared something so inane was absurd.

Misharin was not my enemy here, either, though she and her crew had played a part in the deception.

No, my foe was someone else altogether, and was dangerous. I had been lucky in the mining control module. The explosion could have easily torn the chamber in half and thrown me out into the void.

I reached the command centre. I stood in the doorway, scanning the gloomy interior. There were three other doors leading off the circular chamber. Viewports covered most of the walls, interspersed with data screens. The workstations surrounding the command pulpit were empty. The amber and green glows from their screens suggested the habitat’s systems were still functioning.

Most of the lumen strips were out. My bionic eyes adjusted to the low visibility. I saw no one. I stepped inside, braced for an attack. When it didn’t come, I moved to the command pulpit. I wanted access to Anaphora’s central cogitator. I was planning a system scan for life readings anywhere on the station.

I didn’t have to trouble myself. As soon as I was in the centre of the room, the other doors opened, and armed figures in flak armour emerged. They even came in from the door I had entered. They had been following me, waiting for me to walk into an ambush. Twenty warriors surrounded me, aiming bolters at my head.

‘Don’t move, Dagover,’ said a voice. ‘I would prefer to have a last conversation with you before you die.’

‘Task,’ I said.

He stepped in front of his troops. He wore carapace armour, its red ceramite and plasteel plates attached to a black underskin. He wasn’t as well shielded as I was. He would, though, move much more quickly than I could.

‘You remember me, then,’ said Task. ‘Should I be flattered?’

‘No. You should be worried.’

His nose wrinkled in contempt. Task wasn’t one to engage in banter, or a duel of wits. His features were sharp and very narrow, as if his skull had been caught in a press. He looked perpetually displeased, and I think he truly was. Even now, with me at bay, his ambush successful, the moment presumably playing out as he had desired, he did not look happy.

I think it’s a shame some people can’t even take pleasure in victory, don’t you?

Task was a Puritan, and a Monodominant at that. I suppose I could find it in myself to respect his idealism, and perhaps, were I in a generous mood – which is not often the case – his single-mindedness of purpose. His doctrinal inflexibility, though, was beyond tiresome. I had made it a point to keep the composition of my Deathwatch kill teams a deep secret from the likes of Task.

‘So,’ I said, ‘we find ourselves together in the end times.’ So many years had passed since the Astronomican had disappeared, I had come to, if not accept, at least believe that the Emperor was no longer. This was not the creative destruction I advocated. This was precisely the annihilation I had feared, and striven to prevent.

‘We are not together,’ Task said. ‘We are present at this time and place, briefly, and only because I arranged for this encounter to take place.’

‘I’m surprised. I thought we were happier as far apart as possible. Why, by the Throne, would you seek my company?’

‘To stop you. To strengthen what is left of the Imperium, and to avenge what has fallen.’

‘That’s a heavy burden to place on one meeting.’

‘Your mockery is hollow.’

‘Is it? Then why don’t you stop speaking in generalities and tell me what you want. Stop me? Stop me from doing what?’

Task was looking more and more angry, which was impressive, given how put out he looked in the best of circumstances. ‘I know what you are doing,’ he said. ‘You are looking for her.’

‘Her?’

‘Ephrael Stern.’ I’m afraid he spat your name, Sister Superior. He really did. ‘The heretic. The witch. I know, because I am seeking her too.’

‘Oh,’ I said. I was being as insultingly disingenuous as I could. There wasn’t any other way of dealing with him. At the same time, I kept an eye on the bolters surrounding me, and weighed my options. I still held my plasma pistol, but as soon as I brought it up, dozens of mass-reactive shells would fly at my head. ‘In that case,’ I went on, ‘we should be joining forces.’

He wasn’t amused. ‘Help you corrupt what remains of the Imperium even further? I don’t think so. She must be destroyed, inquisitor.’

‘Lord inquisitor, if we’re being formal.’

He ignored me. ‘I am going to kill her.’

I smiled. That puts most people off their stride. He didn’t much care for what my rag of a face did, either. ‘She’s already been killed twice,’ I said. ‘What makes you think death will take this time?’

‘I’ll make sure it does. I’ll practise with you.’

Though I will never be sure, I believe that was a moment of deliberate wit on his part. That’s what I like to think.

‘You staged that false drukhari attack,’ I said, playing for a bit more time as I settled on my course of action.

‘When I learned Stern had been through this system, I knew you would not be long in coming. I have been aware of your movements, Dagover, ever since I picked up Stern’s trail. I saw the chance here to put an end to your crimes.’

‘The staging was rather well done,’ I said, ‘at least superficially. I don’t blame you. I don’t expect anyone from the Ordo Malleus to be able to mimic a xenos attack beyond the surface details. Who did you have killed, though?’

‘There were heretics aboard Anaphora.’

‘Of course there were.’

‘They were purged.’

I smiled again. ‘Of course they were. The rest of the crew? Evacuated by freighter after baiting your trap, I take it.’

‘They have, for the moment, shown themselves to be faithful, and eager to repent of their sins.’

‘Has my crew been extended the same mercy?’

‘They are unharmed,’ Task said. ‘For now. We have jammed your vox. The docking bay is under guard. They cannot help you.’

I didn’t tell him that they would not have been able to even if I could communicate with them. Our casualties over the decades in the Imperium Nihilus had been severe. I was the only one left who could take to the battlefield. If Task had effectively sealed them on the Iudex Ferox, he had done me a favour.

‘Where does that leave us, then?’ I asked. ‘If you had planned to kill me, you would have done so already.’ I knew the answer, but was playing for a little more time. I held my plasma pistol at my side, barrel pointed down. Task and his retinue were keeping an eye on my right hand, waiting for me to try to shoot my way out of the ambush. While we talked, I had been moving my left hand, in minute stages, towards my belt.

‘You should have died in the drill control module. That you did not is the fault of those who prepared the ambush, and they know they will be chastened in due course.’

‘Why am I still alive now?’

‘Because I decided, since you had survived the trap, that it was important for you to understand why you were going to die. This is an execution, Dagover. I hope you will repent in your final moments.’

I was out of time, then. But I was ready. I laughed in Task’s face. ‘I will never repent for trying to save the Imperium from itself,’ I said. My left hand dropped a krak grenade to the floor.

Task threw himself back. I crouched next to the grenade, throwing up my arms to protect my head. Task’s squad fired at me, but I had caught them by surprise; they were a second slow and I’d thrown their aim by just enough. The grenade went off, and I was close to the centre of the melt. It scorched the left side of my armour, and my boots began to melt, but the ceramite that protected me was stronger than the floor of the station, and in another crucial second the entire centre of the floor collapsed, taking me and the nearest work module with it.

I dropped down into a tangle of power cables and honeycombed metal. The outer hull was a few feet away. I dropped another krak grenade.

‘Your ship is my prisoner!’ Task shouted. ‘You cannot escape.’

Bolt-shells drove into the wreckage and punched chunks out of my armour.

‘Who said anything about escape?’ I asked, and the other grenade went off, breaching the hull.

Air shrieked out of the station, carrying me with it. As I dropped through the breach, I exhaled, forcing the air from my lungs so they wouldn’t rupture. I grabbed the edge of the breach, took another second to orient myself and spot my ship. It wasn’t far. As long as I wasn’t clumsy, I could launch myself across the void at it and not worry about missing.

I pushed off.

In response to the vacuum, my armour routed oxygen directly through the intravenous links to my body. Even without a helmet, I could survive a few minutes. The additional damage to my flesh would hardly be noticed. There are advantages, Sister Superior, to being a grotesque. Unlike you, I can only die once, but there is so little left of me that can die.

I floated through the darkness. I brushed past a module protruding like an abscess from the control centre. I pushed against it, correcting my course and accelerating. I used the thermal outflow from my armour’s power pack to push me a bit faster. The Iudex Ferox loomed ahead. My lungs kept trying to draw air, and their futile hitching was agonising. I retained my consciousness, cursing my body for its weakness.

A short distance above the Iudex Ferox was the Unwavering, Task’s ship. It took no more than a glance to know that it had weathered the years in the Imperium Nihilus far better than my own, though it was clearly limping too. I did not have to guess if its weapons were trained on my cruiser. If it came to a void battle between the wounded cruisers, I did not fancy our chances. Getting back onto the Iudex Ferox, then trying to fire the engines and get off a broadside, was not a solution. I had to get rid of Task some other way.

I hit the hull of the battle cruiser. It was an endless wall above and below me. I grabbed the head of a protruding gargoyle to hold myself in place, turned around, and activated the mag-grips of my boots. It was getting harder to think as I started walking up the hull. There was an access hatch less than fifty yards away. It seemed miles. By the time I reached it, it was as if my armour were the sentient being bending down to unscrew the hatch, and I a distant spectator, rapidly falling into the numbness of eternal cold.

Then I was inside, and cycling through an emergency airlock, and finally drawing breath again. I ran to the nearest grav-lift, took it to the bridge level, then pounded down the hall to my quarters. I crossed paths with Bathia Granz, the auspex officer. She was startled to see me.

‘My lord inquisitor,’ she said, falling into pace beside me. ‘We didn’t know you were back on the ship. We’ve been trying to contact–’

‘Keep trying,’ I said, interrupting her. ‘Return to the bridge and keep trying to contact me. Give no indication that you have seen me.’

‘As you command,’ she said, and left me.

I keep many trophies from my foes. I have sanded skins and mounted skulls. I also have other, more pragmatic artefacts. I don’t think you would approve of them, Sister Superior. Then again, your friendship with a Harlequin tells me you understand the value of flexibility. In my study, I opened my vault and removed a stasis cylinder. I had kept the object within for more than a century and a half. I had always thought I might use it for something more ambitious than what I had in mind now. But needs must.

I had to leave the ship again, but this time I took a helmet with me.

Emerging from a hatch on the top of the conning cathedral, I launched myself towards the Unwavering. I was so small an object, moving so slowly, I would not be picked up by an auspex scan. I was beneath notice. What I had to hope was that Task was still searching for me elsewhere on the station. Even if he boarded the Iudex Ferox, I would be satisfied. There would be nothing for him to find there, and he would have other concerns very shortly.

‘Why are you hiding, Dagover?’ he voxed, confirming the fact that he did not know where I was. ‘I took you for many things. A coward was not among them.’

I smiled to myself.

It took ten minutes for me to cross the distance between our ships. I touched down on the hull of the Unwavering only long enough to maglock the cylinder. Then I deactivated the stasis field and pushed off back towards the Iudex Ferox.

Inside the cylinder was a relic of Commorragh. Or part of one, to be more precise. The rest, missing a twisted limb, is still in that dark city. Do remind me, some other time, to tell you the story of how I acquired it. Its importance to this story is that, when not in stasis, the limb cried out to the drukhari. It sought to make the relic whole again. Its cries were powerful, and I counted on them reaching a long way now, though not necessarily through the materium.

I had just re-entered the Iudex Ferox when my efforts bore fruit. The engines of the Unwavering flared. Minutes later, the shuttle that had brought Task and his troops to Anaphora shot away from the station to rejoin the battle cruiser. By the time I reached the bridge, the Unwavering was pulling away hard, its plasma drive a glaring sun in the void.

I approached the command pulpit and nodded to my shipmaster, Reya Avaxan. ‘Are communications still being jammed?’ I asked.

‘No, lord inquisitor.’

‘Multiple contacts,’ Granz called.

‘Not arriving from the warp,’ I predicted. ‘And their trajectory is aimed at the Unwavering.’

Granz looked up from her station, but did not ask how I knew. My officers knew better. ‘They are drukhari,’ she confirmed.

‘Should we join the Unwavering?’ Avaxan asked with a half-smile.

‘I think not,’ I said. ‘We are in no condition to be of use. Set a course out of the system. But signal Sacramentum Primus. Confirm the presence of a drukhari threat in the system. Tell them to send their fleet.’

You look disapproving, Sister Superior Stern. You do not find the irony of Task’s plight amusing. You think I may have undone your good work in the Sacramentum System. Perhaps. I do not know. There was a war raging when last we received signals from that region. I do not know if Task survived or not. I do not know if the Sacramentum forces were victorious or not.

I make no apologies.

It was good that you saved Sacramentum from the Ruinous Powers. Good, but not sufficient, even if we consider an isolated system on the other side of the Cicatrix Maledictum. Sacramentum had to prove itself worthy of survival. It had to show itself capable of strength and renewal. I hope it has done so.

Neither the past nor stasis will save the Imperium, Sister Superior. The future holds salvation, and the path to the future is through flame.

THE LAST CRUCIBLE

Noah Van Nguyen

The Ordo Militarum, as my lord is surely aware, concerns itself with overseeing the efforts of the Imperium’s many military organisations to ensure that the purging of the Emperor’s enemies is conducted with brutal efficiency. Kataryn Moloth is known as one of this ordo’s most renowned and formidable inquisitors, and leaves no stone unturned in her investigation of the protracted conflict against the implacable necrons on Eleutane. While the Astra Militarum regiments involved appear to have employed sound strategy and fought valiantly, Lady Moloth’s scrutiny reveals that there may have been more to this battlezone than meets the eye. She aptly demonstrates that in the business of smiting the Imperium’s foes, there is no room for faint-heartedness.

Kataryn Moloth, inquisitor of the Ordo Militarum, was reviewing her requisition order when storm troopers tossed a sunken-eyed, hollow-cheeked wretch before her.

A proud wretch, who dared look up.

‘The insubordinate, Lady Moloth. As requested.’ Captain Duxxor’s face was a brutal slab with a knobby scar. ‘I’, the Inquisition’s unmistakable seal. All of Kataryn’s storm troopers had earned the mark.

Kataryn dismissed Duxxor. Her interview with the prisoner would hardly slow her review. Mental engrams from a lifetime of cognitive indoctrination had compartmentalised her intellect. Her mind was a mapped labyrinth.

From her peripheral vision, she examined the insubordinate. He wasn’t handsome. An ugly man, with stark eyes. Whatever world tithed him to the Astra Militarum had done their young eligibles a favour.

Yet his back was straight, and men with spines were what Kataryn needed.

‘Lieutenant Truce Corrut,’ Kataryn recited. ‘Provisional commander. Cerberus Company. Some line battalion, some Elysian regiment. Charged with insubordination following a counter-attack against standing orders.’ She spared a glance. ‘Did I miss anything?’

‘Madame inquisitor.’ Corrut clambered up. ‘I’m not a heretic. I don’t know what they told you, but I’ve kept faith with the Emperor every day of my life.’

Kataryn straightened the collar of the gambeson concealing her neck. Corrut was no liar. She knew liars. He was faithful. Having seen her rosette, observant. Hopefully, intelligent.

Kataryn thumbed her rosette’s sigil, still scanning the requisition order before her. ‘Lady Moloth will do, Corrut. I’m an inquisitor, not a spire baroness. Sit.’ She motioned to the cushioned stool beside her ornate desk. The seat was the same as hers.

Corrut sat, surveying the vaulted chamber. No doubt he expected a torturer’s cell, but these were Kataryn’s personal quarters. They tripled as a library, an arsenal, a chapel. There was no bed.

‘This matter’s related to your charge,’ Kataryn said. ‘But frankly I haven’t come to Eleutane for matters of minor insubordination. Tell me, were your charges appropriate?’

Wheels turned in the gruff soldier’s head. Perhaps he was thinking he had less to worry about than he’d feared, or that this was no trial at all. The truth was, every moment of Corrut’s miserable life had been a trial, and it all led here.

‘No,’ Corrut said.

‘The necrons butchered your Guardsmen during your counter-attack.’

Corrut’s gaze darkened. ‘I saw an opportunity and moved on it. That’s my job, milady. To take initiative. Necrons don’t make many mistakes, but they overextended themselves that day.’

He waited for a reply. Kataryn only observed.

The silence prodded him on. ‘It was a good call. If the companies on the flanks had supported Cerberus, we could have broken the enemy salient.’

Kataryn nodded. She had done exhaustive research on Eleutane’s flagging campaign before summoning Corrut. His words bore the truth. And besides this isolated blemish, his record suggested so much potential.

‘You were a provisional commander,’ she said. ‘Why weren’t you simply relieved?’

Corrut’s lips hardened. He had that look, of course. Of one who challenged foolish orders. ‘Someone wanted to make an example.’

‘It would be a good example to make if rash calls were getting soldiers killed. But you don’t think that at all, do you?’

Corrut scowled. ‘No. Someone with rank on their shoulders threw me on the pyre to save themselves. One of the other company commanders, likely. They should’ve had my back.’

‘Insightful. The truth is worse. Your case is related to all of Eleutane’s myriad setbacks and delays.’

Corrut winced. ‘Setbacks?’

‘You’ve heard. Everyone has. No ground’s been gained for months. Necrons dominate Eleutane’s lower geosphere. The marshal-adamant’s forces, despite his reputation, have made no progress.’

‘We’ve proven ourselves throughout the Urdonne Sector, milady. The marshal’s all that’s held us together since the Noctis Aeterna began.’

‘So I’m told. But by my assessment, Eleutane shouldn’t need the reinforcements en route from the Gothic Sector. Not with the kind of forces at this world’s disposal. Not without deeper, more troubling issues.’

Corrut paused. ‘Respectfully, there are deeper issues. Mid-level command’s full of idiots and careerists. I’ve dealt with the scavengers enough to know. Lady Moloth, is this an interrogation?’

That caught Kataryn off guard. Corrut had a whole-hearted earnestness. Soldiers were made to bend. Some were needles, some were nails, but malleability was necessary to shape them into the killers the Imperium needed. Corrut was as hard as a hammer.

‘No,’ Kataryn said. ‘A test, perhaps. What if I told you treachery was behind the failures here? That traitors were subverting the campaign and saw to your charges to conceal their transgressions?’

Corrut’s brow wrinkled. ‘I wouldn’t believe it. Good soldiers serve on Eleutane. Elysians, Jourans, Valhallans–’

‘Idiots and careerists,’ Kataryn said.

Corrut shrugged. ‘Every army has those.’

Kataryn respected his candour. Honesty was an inquisitor’s mandate, too. Speak truth to power. Sear it into their hearts and minds, with flame.

Kataryn reclined. ‘Projection. You’re faithful, so you imagine others are. You’d die for the Emperor. You think everyone would. But not everyone shares your virtues.’

‘I’m no fool, milady. I know how many weaklings and imbeciles man the lines. But traitors…’

Kataryn shot to her feet, her seat clattering somewhere behind her. ‘Don’t be naive. All heresy is born from lesser shortcomings. Where did you think it starts? Sensible soldiers become heretics to save themselves, or because they are fools. These are no reasons to suffer their existence.’

Corrut bowed. ‘If there are traitors on Eleutane, I would kill them with my own hands.’

‘Only because you believe there aren’t.’ Kataryn mastered the hatred in her breathing. ‘You think me paranoid, but soon you’ll see. Trust no one. Question everything.’ Her mentor’s words. Lord Rabsyn. It had been so long.

Kataryn sealed her requisition order. ‘This is to be delivered to the marshal-adamant. It places you under my direct command. I require an officer familiar with Eleutanese operations to assist my investigation. I want pelts, Corrut. You’re going to help me cull the wolves.’ A servitor plodded over from its charging nook between laden library shelves on ponderous, metallic legs. It retrieved the requisition and pounded off again, to Kataryn’s scriveners.

Corrut watched it go. ‘And my charges?’

Kataryn prowled to her armoury. More servitors gasped to life in their feeding docks. They affixed conduits to her gambeson, fitting plate segments around her, drilling them together until the armour seals hissed. ‘Your fate’s in my hands. If Eleutane is as free of treachery as you suggest, then indeed you weren’t framed. You were merely insubordinate and will be sentenced appropriately.’ Kataryn’s judgement was never a knife to the back. It was a sword through the heart.

Corrut went stone-still. Today was his trial. There existed no better measure of a man’s character than his conduct on death row.

Kataryn summoned Duxxor. Storm troopers dragged Corrut from the chamber. ‘Equip him from our armoury,’ she ordered. ‘Eleutane’s a warzone. We’ll not give him any excuses to die before we’re done.’

Eleutane was strange. From orbit, the surface appeared craggy, terrestrial. Desolate.

Below those barrens lay another world. A cavernous ocean spanned Eleutane’s subsurface. There the planet’s savages hunted leviathan troglobites lurking in the deep. Beyond that, the under-sea was a quaint fact. The tithe dominated the authorities’ attentions. Surface mining was the business of the day.

Yet whatever mysteries Eleutane’s lower geosphere concealed, the necrons hadn’t forgotten. After the Great Rift cut open the bowels of the Imperium, the ancient xenos breed moved. Hunchbacked necron emissaries proclaimed their phaeronic lord’s return to Eleutane. They crowed over hacked Imperial communications about their due. Those protestations seemed pathetic, belaboured – until they attacked.

Fighting was centered around Tona Complex, an industrial installation half burrowed into Eleutane’s raised continental shelf. Control of the nearby Well – a mile-wide hollow leading into the under-sea – was critical. The xenos seized it in days.

Kataryn had always compared the arrogant necron breed with the long-nailed mandarins and court astrologers of Old Terra. They were fragile with hubris, made spiteful by their knowledge, always complaining bitterly about their loss of empire the way human elders mourn the lost mastery of their bladders. The necron dynasties were a decaying species with a gutted husk of a culture. The only purpose remaining to them was to die out and allow humanity to seize its inheritance.

But on Eleutane, the necrons proved themselves cunning, astute and relentless. Their legions adapted to each of the Militarum’s strategies, then mirrored and mocked them. The unliving breed perverted the honest butchery of respectable warfare into an abstract science, as immune to human understanding as their esoteric techno-sorceries.

Imperial casualties mounted. Fighting grew tougher until friendly lines receded to Tona’s most favourable positions, where they held firm.

Now necrons controlled the under-sea. After exterminating the indigenous abhumans below, enigmatic vessels forged from unidentifiable alloys began routinely piercing Eleutane’s surface, extracting at liberty whatever secrets they had come for. They passed through Eleutane’s uncontested airspace at will. It was shameful. It made Kataryn physically ill.

None of this information was difficult to come by. Crusade records were detailed and plentiful. The scrupulous marshal-adamant kept his forces disciplined, for he demanded much of them. It was those unrelenting expectations that allowed his hosts to secure the sector from dozens of threats during the darkest hours of the Noctis Aeterna.

He was an inspiration, and he’d carried this burden alone long enough. Imperium Sanctus had finally reached the sector under siege. Eleutane’s purification was at hand. Kataryn would uncover the treachery subverting the world’s war effort. She would excise it.

She already had a working theory. First she had to backtrack from Corrut’s charges.

Three Valkyries carried Kataryn’s forces to Smelter Third-Apex: a wide, low-lying ore refinery within Tona. As they descended, an echelon of crescent-shaped xenos flyers slashed across the grey slate of Eleutane’s sky. Imperial interceptors trailed in hopeless pursuit, but when the necron formation disappeared into the Well, they broke off their chase, dispersing.

Kataryn and her cohorts disembarked. Her Valkyries, engines howling, drifted back into the sky. They were to enter atmospheric orbit, and await further instructions.

‘This way.’ Corrut took point. Kataryn and her storm troopers followed. Corrut’s undecided fate hadn’t cowed him. Rather, he seemed dead set on using whatever time he had left to see the real culprits behind his failed counter-attack punished. His determination was single-minded, worthy of respect regardless of his doubts about Eleutane’s traitors.

A wide trench wormed through a grove of solar collection arrays into the loading bay of a ruined building. The ceilings soared overhead. Glass from shattered skylights crunched underfoot. Corrut had fought here, Kataryn recalled from his transcripts. He had more acts of bravery to his name than most. None of that prevented his eventual charges, of course. But all the better.

Guardsmen idled on low gantries or within cold, slag-scarred crucibles lining the building. Most paid no attention. A witless few jeered, mocking Kataryn’s storm troopers, possibly confusing them for regimental grenadiers. Toy soldiers, they called, hooted, whistled. Glory boys.

Then they picked up the thrum of Kataryn’s power armour, the whiff of smouldering incense from the censer chained to her vambrace. They glimpsed her cowled eyes and the Inquisitorial sigils seared into her troopers’ armaplas breastplates.

They averted their gazes. The silence was a dirge.

Inquisitorial Tempestus Scions were above the ridicule of peons. Duxxor once referred to Militarum regulars as ‘padding’. The thought brought a thin smile to Kataryn’s lips – yet these Guardsmen were restless. For any unit, inaction was the seed of heresy. She had to finish her investigation as soon as possible, before Eleutane’s situation worsened.

Kataryn passed Duxxor a coded hand-signal. He filed off with her storm troopers, servo-skulls bobbing in trace. They would report when they were ready.

Kataryn and Corrut found Argus Company’s command point in the officium overlooking Third-Apex’s yawning innards. Argus was the flanking unit which Corrut claimed had abandoned him. He burst into the command point as if clearing the room.

When Kataryn entered, the command staff straightened. Some trooper whispered a question; his peers hushed him. They monitored a handful of quiet vox-channels. Easy to coordinate doing nothing.

A sharp adjutant jogged to a senior officer in a leather greatcoat. A commissar – hard to mistake the hats. Or the sneers.

‘Commissar Lainsted, lady inquisitor.’ He marched over and offered a decorous bow. ‘I was anticipating your arrival. Always an honour to serve the most holy Ordo Militarum.’

Kataryn wrinkled her nose. The command point reeked of cleaning solvent. ‘My regards. Bring me Captain Halsay.’

Lainsted blinked. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Halsay, sir.’ Corrut craned his head around, as if Halsay might be hiding somewhere between vox-hubs and stacked field rations. ‘He’s a fat coward. Hard to miss. Lady Moloth has questions for him.’

‘Captain Halsay is dead, Lady Moloth,’ Lainsted said.

Kataryn winced. ‘Was that reported?’

‘To the Commissariat, yes. It might not have reached the regular chain of command. Our vox-lines are unreliable at best.’

Kataryn considered his words. ‘You executed him.’

Corrut’s face went a shade closer to Eleutane’s sky, his mood inching in the same direction. ‘What’d you shoot him for? Being wide?’

Lainsted looked at him. ‘You. You’re the brevet officer who buried Cerberus Company.’

‘He’s seconded to my retinue,’ Kataryn snapped. ‘If Halsay’s dead, who’s in charge?’

Lainsted arched his brow. ‘I am, milady. We have no brevet officers here. Although perhaps that’s for the best. To answer your question, lieutenant – I summarily executed Halsay for seeking to support your unsanctioned advance. Perhaps you’d have preferred Lady Moloth do the deed?’

Corrut’s coarse hands balled into clubs. Kataryn understood. Lainsted was a waste, with the sneer of a psychopath and the composure of a war hero. Medals too, no doubt. Ranks and ranks of them.

But Corrut couldn’t overstep himself. Kataryn had brought him to test his prudence, among other things. He must go as far as he needed to – and not an inch further. He must prove his judgement. His restraint.

Corrut glowered. ‘You wanted a traitor, Lady Moloth. I give you a vulture. One of many, gnawing on the gristle of good men.’

Lainsted scoffed. ‘Moments ago you called Halsay a coward.’

‘Before I met the real coward,’ Corrut said. ‘You got my company killed.’

Lainsted raised his chin. He really was a scavenger. A command-point type. He knew how to destroy his enemies – especially the ones with aquilas on their shoulders.

‘Lady Moloth,’ Lainsted began, ‘this man has been charged with insubordination. Ordinarily I would simply discharge my duty, but considering his company…’

He unclipped the holster at his waist. He wasn’t subtle. He wore his contempt like a medal. Shined, polished. Good for parade and nothing else.

‘Bold,’ Kataryn said. ‘How certain are you Corrut is guilty?’

‘The schola progenium purified my judgement, milady. I have served with honours for forty solar years.’ Medals. Ranks and ranks of them.

Kataryn nodded. ‘Can I count on your assistance?’

Lainsted clutched his bolt pistol, smirking. ‘Of course, mi–’

‘Put that back,’ Kataryn said. Duxxor stood in the doorway. She acknowledged his brief report in coded sign.

All normal. Excellent, even. Argus Company was a model unit. If all of the marshal-adamant’s forces were in such condition, it was a shame they hadn’t fought in the Indomitus Crusade. Then again, if they never attacked, they would have hardly been an asset.

They’d amend that today. ‘Corrut,’ Kataryn said. ‘You’re in command of Argus effective immediately. The commissar will assist your transition in every way possible.’

Lainsted choked. Corrut nodded.

‘We’re attacking the necrons,’ Kataryn said. ‘My forces will act as a supporting element.’

Lainsted interrupted. ‘Milady, offensive operations require heavy coordination. This could upset a delicate balance.’

Kataryn returned a dead stare. ‘That’s the point.’

The commissar went parchment pale. The war hero was gone, somewhere.

Kataryn was satisfied with the poetry of this coming engagement. Lainsted claimed Corrut was responsible for his company’s failure; Corrut claimed the opposite. The Emperor would show Kataryn the truth to their accusations. The necrons, too, in their own way.

It was a trial, as all moments are. A trial by battle.

And a third force stood on trial. The real traitor of Eleutane, whose identity Kataryn suspected this attack would finally confirm. If she was wrong, she would hold herself to the same ruthless standard she held all traitors and failures. But Kataryn Moloth was never wrong.

The Ordo Militarum hunted traitors in the Imperial war machine. To that end Kataryn had butchered and bled in more warzones than the Astra Militarum’s saltiest veterans. In the Tenebrum Stars Crusade, serving under Lord Inquisitor Rabsyn, Kataryn’s under-equipped Imperial task force battled foes as numberless as the stars…

Heretic legions. Worthless mallets breaking against the anvil of faith…

The guileful Asuryani, whose prescient, balletic strikes the Imperials endured with the masochistic patience of flagellants…

And last, most galling, the flagrant apostate renegades from within the crusade’s finest Mortavian regiments.

The Tenebrum Stars were the first chapter in Kataryn’s long, brutal career. Like Lord Rabsyn himself, that crusade utterly tried Kataryn. Although the Mortavian heresy eventually claimed the lord inquisitor’s life, Kataryn learned much from him before his fall.

Laxity breeds dissent. Tolerance is the seed of heresy. But most importantly – all must be doubted, questioned. Punished. Better to purify with flame than allow a single, hidden sin to fester into a fouler blight.

Kataryn judged herself by that creed, and all her servants. Duxxor, Corrut, Lainsted. Let war be their crucible.

The Well was their objective. Inquisitorial storm troopers advanced alongside Elysian regulars in ragged columns, each element covering the other’s movements. They met no resistance until crushed necrodermis revenants, thought destroyed, rattled and rose from the crisp earth, juddering off blankets of dust, glaring with baleful eyes. Gauss lightning crackled and seared from the rising legion into the heart of Kataryn’s advance, stripping cover away in helical blizzards of oxidised metal.

Attrition was the necrons’ strength; the Elysians’ was mobility. Unexpected enfilades of melta and las-fire confused the aliens’ witless defence. Some warriors, overwhelmed by the crude, honest firepower, exploded in bursts of brass shrapnel and nether-light. Others recoiled, as if shaking off a dream, then staggered onward, implacable and enduring.

Greater devilries converged. Spider-legged machines, scuttling through the refinery’s shelled structure, firing from the rafters or within fissuring, emptied gas reservoirs. Macabre xenos arks floated through the rear, closer to the Well’s eerie horizon, redeploying warriors or salvaging the husks of their fallen.

Corrut requested air support. Kataryn’s Valkyries obliged. Pillars of fire painted the ashen horizon in fiery palettes. The Elysians pushed forward, as tireless as the necrons, spurred on by blazing fervour instead of cold, mechanical compulsion.

Until they were cut off. Bronze skeletons of adaptive metal shambled in from every direction. Kataryn readied her power axe and gilded bolt pistol, saying nothing. The Emperor preferred actions over words. Her weapons were her prayers.

Speechless Elysians watched Kataryn carve her way forward, then fell into her wake, the sledgehammer behind her sword stroke. Her expectations were singular: kill for the God-Emperor. She demanded the same of herself.

Corrut led from the rear – effectively. From three vox-casters he summoned reinforcements. Sceptical commanders denied his requests until he mentioned her name. Lady Moloth. Yes, the inquisitor. You want to explain where you were hiding after this? Thought not. Copy. The Emperor protects.

Corrut got what he asked for. Fire support slotted flawlessly into the fight, dispersing the greatest xenos eyesores. A tide of Valhallans surged into combat and – body by broken body – gave the necrons a bitter serving of human tenacity. Jouran Dragoons howled through the complex in mechanised columns, breaking through to Argus Company, weapons soon chanting alongside the Elysians’.

This breakthrough did not come without cost. People died. More than even Kataryn would have preferred, satisfied though she was to see the display of utter loyalty that the body count signified. Yet as the emergent Imperial offensive anointed Tona Complex with sacrifice, the necrons gave ground.

It was a tactical conceit. Not a rout. Monoliths glided ominously backwards, towards the Well. Ghost arks drifted in reverse. Xenos revenants backstepped in a phantasmagoric, high-knees march. It all looked ridiculous until the necrons’ grotesque firepower swept the battlefield in conscientious geometries, stoppering the Imperial advance again and again.

At the Well’s brim, the tidal crash of water beneath the planet’s surface roared up the hollow, unceasing. With it wafted up the under-sea’s salt aroma, clarifying the reek of chemical flame raging across Tona. Necron skimmers, eerie and graceful, sailed over the Well’s edge into the abyss. Their uncanny retreat changed nothing. Victory was at hand. Some version of it.

Prismatic beams engulfed Corrut’s position. Troops fell, scorched and foam-mouthed, twitching on the ground. Synaptic disintegrators, Kataryn realised. Deathmarks. The transcendental mind commanding the necrons had dissected the Imperial advance, found Argus Company at its center. They sought to eliminate them.

Tainted subatomic energy blistered from afar, pinning them. The migraine-bright rays fried synapses and melted brain matter. With bio-modded vision, Kataryn isolated the deathmarks’ position. They were behind cover, near the Well’s edge. Dirty light drooled from the lucent globes in their skulls, flickering with algebraic intelligence.

Kataryn mounted their cover to find Corrut. He was on the ground, caked with dust, crawling backwards. Lainsted stood over him, bolt pistol raised.

The worm had some excuse, no doubt. To kill Corrut, to prove his ruthlessness. As if that was ever the point.

Kataryn booted Lainsted in the chest. Writhing in the dust, Lainsted’s arrogance guttered out. It was a marvellous sight.

‘With me,’ Kataryn told Corrut, mustering her storm troopers.

They charged. Covered by the Elysians, they closed the gap, dragging the deathmarks into a melee. Duxxor blasted one in its eye until the globe cracked and its jaw liquefied. Kataryn cleft another’s black skeleton into black bones. She crushed the scarabs skittering underfoot which dared recover the fallen abominations. Scrap, all of them. Kataryn was grateful their breed lacked respiratory systems, grateful she needn’t share Eleutane’s precious oxygen with such contemptible creations.

A final deathmark met Kataryn’s violent gaze. Its vocalisers crackled: a warped parody of speech, heavy with interference.

Kataryn fired, but it was already gone. A field of tessellated light shimmered away from the shadow where it stood.

Thunder clapped from the Well. A colossal blade sliced from the abyss, into Eleutane’s bleary sky, a shockwave ripping through the air behind it. Xenos forces around the Well teleported to the ship in glimmers of sick light. Perhaps the necrons were finally broken by the Imperial drive. More likely, irritated.

Atmosphere distorted around the scythe-like leviathan, and it vanished.

Cheers rose across the front’s impressive mileage, even as the charnel smoke of incinerated organic matter and ignited industrial waste rose into the choking atmosphere. But this was not a victory – not in the slightest. The necrons’ retreat had been scornful and considered. The outcome, preordained.

This tarot had been read long ago. The necrons had taken whatever they came for on Eleutane. They’d had no more reason to stay.

Eleutane was purified. All xenos vessels in-system had left, just like the surface vessel. In Tona Complex, crusading troops broke cover, embracing and weeping, unconcerned. Contrails from Imperial flyers streaked across the Well’s hollow. Troop haulers descended to the under-sea for the first time in years.

Kataryn ignored all this. The swift victory and acceptable losses – some fifteen thousand in two hours, nothing that could not be replaced – had revealed her traitor. The marshal-adamant had carried his lone burden of command for so long, he hadn’t seen it. But she did.

Argus Company consolidated at First-Zenith, a smoking cargo pier hanging over the Well’s abyss. Corrut celebrated with his new comrades, their visors raised, helmet straps dangling brazenly aside.

They froze when Kataryn arrived. Nobody saluted, but Kataryn wouldn’t have returned the meaningless gesture either way. She safeguarded the Militarum’s loyalty. She was not slave to its protocols.

‘Gentlemen. Glorious work. Lieutenant Corrut, where’s the commissar?’

Corrut gestured in Lainsted’s direction. The commissar brooded alone down the pier, under a broken crane, monitoring vox-chatter. Damage assessments, requests for medical evacuation. Nothing unusual.

‘I’ve reported today’s events to the Commissariat,’ Lainsted said as she approached. ‘I’m due for recall. Perhaps you wanted to know.’

‘Not at all.’ Kataryn raised her bolt pistol and shot Lainsted through the head. He toppled, brainless, knocking the vox-caster receiver from its hook.

Kataryn righted it and returned the way she’d come, to Corrut and his jarred soldiers. ‘Lieutenant, we’re due to debrief with the marshal-adamant.’

Corrut babbled, half speechless. Then: ‘Why?’

‘It’s procedural,’ Kataryn said. ‘And I promised to brief him on the results of my enquiry.’

Corrut peered at the lump of Lainsted by the vox-caster.

Kataryn didn’t need to explain that. Corrut understood. Her standards were high. For commissars, they were even higher. Lainsted considered himself above error and got what he deserved.

Corrut hardened. ‘He was a fool, in the end. But only that.’

Kataryn stepped closer. ‘He was a commissar. Only children and idiots are merely fools.’

Corrut’s gaze flickered. ‘And me?’

Kataryn weighed him under her gaze. She adjusted her cowl, an executioner in all but name. ‘You’re no insubordinate. And certainly no traitor.’

That was their next target.

Marshal-Adamant Gavrioza, lord commander of the Urdonne Sector, named Protector of the Faithful by the Third Agrippine Episcopaliate.

To his troops, he was legend.

To the Church, he was a saint.

To Kataryn, he was a severe man with a chinstrap beard in kempt fatigues, many times repaired. He waited near the axis of her earlier advance. A front-line leader, but nothing like her. They were both obsessive, yes. But Gavrioza was forbearing. Kataryn was pitiless.

She entered his unimpressive command bunker alongside Corrut, her storm troopers trailing. Hololithic tables cramped the low-ceilinged shelter. Dusky light bled into the bunker through fractures in the rockcrete. Wargear hung from a cross beside the rack where Gavrioza must have slept, beside stacks of folded maps.

Kataryn nodded to the veterans posted behind the marshal. ‘Are they necessary?’

‘As necessary as yours, I imagine,’ Gavrioza said. ‘Consider it a formality.’

Kataryn seated herself opposite him, leaving Duxxor and Corrut standing. The ugly lieutenant obviously held the marshal-adamant in reverence bordering veneration. If Gavrioza knew who Corrut was, it didn’t show. His eyes searched Kataryn’s face beneath her raised cowl. He was an analyst to the bone.

Gavrioza packed resin into an ornamented pipe, licking his thumb. ‘So you led the recent drive. Something to do with your enquiries, I presume. I can’t see how.’

‘Call it investigative discretion.’

‘Hell of an investigation you’ve got then.’ Gavrioza didn’t light his pipe. As if he’d packed his real words within, and smoking would let them out too soon. ‘Turn anything up?’

Kataryn nodded. ‘More than I expected. I didn’t know how much your people loved you, for instance. They’ll do anything for you.’

‘It’s my job to be the commander who deserves that.’ Gavrioza toyed with a palm-sized micro-brazier. ‘Officers bear responsibility for their troops’ welfare.’

‘And to wage wars.’

‘Wars are a tough business, Lady Moloth. Anyone who says otherwise wants to sell you something.’ Gavrioza’s eyes twinkled. ‘But you’re not here for that. You mentioned elusive traitors within my crusade. With Eleutane taken, it seems you lack basis for further investigation.’

Kataryn smiled opaquely. ‘It does seem that way. But the matter’s been resolved.’

Gavrioza raised his pipe. ‘That so? And how went the enquiries?’

Kataryn steepled her fingers, not removing her eyes from the marshal. ‘No traitors.’

Gavrioza grimaced. He was wary. ‘None, is it?’

‘None.’ Kataryn raised her finger. ‘In the ranks.’

Gavrioza turned. ‘Guards, arrest Lady Moloth.’

Kataryn dropped her finger. A signal to Duxxor.

Before Gavrioza’s veterans could move, a volley of hellgun fire punched them to the walls. The veterans collapsed, their breastplates split and helmets burst, their guts steaming on the bunker wall in a shapeless, savage mural.

Gavrioza reached for his laspistol. Kataryn fired first. This close, the bolt didn’t even detonate. It speared through Gavrioza’s midriff, lodging into the floor unexploded.

Gavrioza groaned. Kataryn slapped his exquisite pistol aside and rose. She wrapped her fist around his throat, squeezing until something crunched. She dropped him. The marshal-adamant, face purple, gaped at the venous blood puddling from his belly, trying to scoop it back in.

The bunker door slammed open. More guards and adjutants. They went pale at the sight of the scene inside.

‘Apologies, milady.’ They stumbled back over each other, fighting to leave.

Kataryn nodded to Duxxor. His storm troopers flowed into the corridor. Frightened pleas echoed, punctuated by the liquid discharge of hellgun fire.

Then a laspistol squealed to life behind Kataryn. Corrut was aiming Gavrioza’s weapon at her.

‘You…’ he quavered.

‘I killed a traitor.’

Corrut glanced at the door. ‘And them?’

‘Don’t be naive. The marshal-adamant was beloved. If his armies learn the first thing the Imperium did after re-establishing contact was excise him, revolt will follow. We can’t afford that.’

Corrut’s tortured features smoothed. ‘You’ll expunge his record.’

‘No. The Imperium needs Gavrioza’s legacy and sainthood. It’s the fool himself we can do without.’

‘You’re a vulture,’ Corrut whispered. ‘Like Lainsted. Gavrioza was a good man.’

Kataryn glanced down. The marshal-adamant was still. He had carried his burden for so long. Treachery.

She stared at Corrut. Duxxor could be back with a word. Or a blink, to activate her augmetic beacon.

Kataryn lowered her cowl. ‘A good man. Fine. But wars like Eleutane’s do not stagnate without problems at the top. Who do you think gave the orders to stand firm all these years? Why do you think this crusade dragged on as long as it did?’

‘We needed reinforcements.’

‘So Gavrioza told his regimental commanders. But this war ended long ago. The necrons, Corrut, won.’

He gritted his jaw. ‘We won. Today. Because of him.’

Kataryn functioned Gavrioza’s micro-brazier – a burning chalice – and dangled her rosette over the steady flame. Heat seeped in until it glowed. ‘Gavrioza forged you into impeccable warriors. The slag is gone. You were purest steel. But a war machine which doesn’t fight is useless. Your lives were too precious for the marshal-adamant. He would not spend you.’

Kataryn tossed the micro-brazier down, brandishing her candescent rosette. ‘You think I don’t value life. You think me callous. I am, Corrut. I am hateful and sick. But the necrons took what they came for. How many lives will their victory cost us before the end? How many millions? And Eleutane’s inbound reinforcements’ – Kataryn spat – ‘think of the wars which shall be lost without them. To protect his soldiers, Gavrioza condemned entire sectors to the ashes of oblivion. That is the work of a traitor.’

‘He did his best,’ Corrut said. ‘For us. Nobody’s perfect. Not commissars, not generals. Not you.’

‘But you are,’ Kataryn said. ‘You’re perfect.’

Corrut chuckled. ‘Let me guess. My trial’s complete? And I’m innocent?’

‘I didn’t test your innocence today. I tested your judgement. Your record showed competence and potential, so I summoned you. Everything you’ve done has proven your mettle. You will make a worthy acolyte, Corrut.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘You think so? Then you decide. Weigh my actions. Pull that trigger, if you find me wanting. Let us be judged by the same creed. Punished for the same failings.’

Corrut’s jaw grew firm. He would do what he thought he had to. Kataryn had been there herself.

Hand shaking, he lowered the laspistol.

Kataryn smiled. ‘Good.’

She punched the pistol from his grasp and seized his jaw. She clapped him against the wall. Corrut thrashed against the warm rockcrete. He was big. But big men are not stronger than the cable musculature of power armour.

Kataryn pushed her rosette into his cheek. The contact seared. She released him, flailing, to the floor.

Corrut dropped, cupping a hand over his burnt face. ‘I’. When he glared up, the rage in his expression could have boiled blood. The hatred was divine. For one aching moment, Kataryn envied him. She remembered her moment, too. What it had been like.

Kataryn crouched, armour servos whirring gently. She met Corrut’s glare. ‘You’re mine. Do you know what that means?’

Fury filled Corrut’s stark gaze. ‘My life is yours.’

‘No. This was never about control.’ Kataryn folded down the gambeson collar concealing her neck. There, on her pale flesh, stood the ridges of a scar. A distorted ‘I’, like Corrut’s, forced upon Kataryn Moloth by the deceased Lord Inquisitor Rabsyn. That was a long time ago. Before Rabsyn deigned to spare the Mortavian traitors instead of culling them. Before Kataryn executed him for heresy and avenged that lost man who had taught her the truth: forgiveness was nothing but a sin.

‘Prove yourself, and one day you shall wear a rosette like mine,’ Kataryn said. ‘When that day comes – if ever I overstep my bounds – you know what I expect.’

Corrut’s gaze warmed. ‘Judgement.’

Kataryn nodded. ‘Trust no one.’

‘Question… everything.’

Satisfied, Kataryn left. Corrut’s final epiphany was his, and his alone.

Hellguns still barked throughout the bunker. Dead soldiers littered the corridors. Adjutants, sentries. Kataryn did not pity them. Her judgement was absolute. If ever she overstepped her bounds, her acolytes would keep her in check. Corrut was one of many.

‘Lady Moloth.’ Duxxor ambled closer, picking his way over corpses. ‘The prospect?’

‘He extracts with us.’

‘And our gear, milady?’

‘Let him keep it. He’ll need it.’ This was far from Corrut’s last crucible. The Emperor’s trials never ended. Neither did hers.

THE CARBIS INCIDENT

Victoria Hayward

This disturbing report covers an expedition to the uncharted world of Carbis by the venerable Ordo Xenos inquisitor Venicii and his protégé, Interrogator Esme Mzinga. Following the rambling journal of a vanished rogue trader, they seek to uncover the secrets of this strange, wild planet and its bizarre denizens. It strikes this humble scholar, once again, that these secrets are often better left alone, for Mankind was not made to understand them. The fate of Venicii’s retinue serves to provide further proof of this theorem.

‘There are wonders here. Wonders that will change a person, forever.’

– Extract from the journal of Haspard Gorgoin,
Imperial rogue trader

It took all the control Interrogator Esme Mzinga had not to throw the crew member in front of her to the deck. Mirea Mace was difficult enough in the best of circumstances, and a month of slow void travel in the confines of a drop-ship with the neurotic trapper had been less than ideal.

‘I want to know what the inquisitor isn’t telling us,’ Mace repeated.

‘Shut up, Mace,’ Mzinga said mildly.

‘You must know,’ the pinch-faced woman replied. Mzinga sat back in her chair and coolly regarded the other woman.

‘You’re here as a hired gun, not a tactician. If and when the inquisitor wants your advice, I’m sure he’ll ask for it.’

Mace folded her arms and stared past Mzinga, ignoring the barb. The trapper’s face was pale and gaunt under the strip-lighting of the ship’s mess hall.

‘I don’t see why the Avicula couldn’t have dropped us closer,’ Mace muttered.

Mzinga ran a hand through her braided hair. ‘Because, Mace, as helpful as he was escorting us through the warp, Rex Delorno is exactly the sort of rogue trader we don’t want finding out about this operation.’

Mace didn’t reply. Mzinga leant back in her chair and stared at the bulkhead above her. Emperor’s teeth, she thought. This mission. Patience had never been one of her virtues, as the inquisitor had often pointed out. But then again, that hadn’t been why he recruited her. Just as he hadn’t recruited Mace for her personality. Although anyone who had spent most of her life in the darkness of an underhive tracking ripper jacks and miliasaurs wasn’t going to be the most relaxed travel companion. Mace might be the best marksman in the sector, but she’d been questioning their mission lately, and Mzinga was keeping close watch on her.

The mess hatch swung open, and an enormous man clambered in. He beamed, clattering over to the recaff unit.

‘You’re pleased, Samazan,’ Mzinga said.

Samazan grinned and stretched. ‘We’re finally nearing planetside. You,’ he said, pointing at Mace, ‘can finally stop acting crazy.’

Mace’s face remained masklike for a moment, before she finally cracked a smile. Mzinga breathed a sigh of relief. The jocular Guardsman was able to handle Mace in a way she couldn’t. He was also a professional – brutal, efficient, easy to work with.

‘So, interrogator,’ he said, folding himself to sit at the table. ‘Do we know what we’re going to be shooting yet?’ He slid his pot of recaff across to her. ‘My friend here has a reputation for taking out sump pigs.’

Mace rolled her eyes. ‘You wouldn’t joke if you’d seen the sump pigs on Laurencian.’

Mzinga filled her beaker. ‘Pirates, mostly. Anyone trying to loot this corner of the Domina Sector now the warp storms have receded.’ In truth, she knew little more than they did. It felt like a job for the Imperial Navy, rather than a venerable inquisitor and his retinue. It wasn’t for her to question the wisdom of Inquisitor Venicii, but she wished she knew what was in her mentor’s mind, especially of late.

Samazan rubbed his hands. ‘Music to my ears. And you say it’s a jungle climate? Shame we’re not landing.’

Mzinga nodded. ‘You can take the Guardsman off Catachan–’

‘You know that hundreds of Imperial settlers died on Carbis?’ Mace interrupted. ‘I don’t think we should be going anywhere near it.’

Mzinga stretched out her legs and sighed. ‘You’ve ensured that all of us are aware of the rumours, yes, Mace.’

‘They’re not rumours. It’s a matter of record,’ the woman retorted. ‘The warp storms flared up and cut it off from the Imperium. And they say there are things in this sector. Evil things.’ The trapper touched the prayer beads visible at her neck.

Mzinga’s vox buzzed. She unfolded her tall frame, and made her way to the forward cabin. ‘Evil things are what we deal with. If that comes as a surprise to you, perhaps you should reconsider your position as a member of an Inquisitorial retinue.’

‘You’re not listening. Something’s wrong here. He’s not–’

Mzinga spun around and gave Mace a hard stare. ‘Do you want to reconsider what you’re about to say?’

Mace dropped her gaze.

‘Good,’ Mzinga said, and continued through the ship. Whilst she understood the woman’s edginess, she wasn’t going to tolerate insubordination.

She knocked at the cabin door.

‘Enter,’ came a mechanically enhanced voice.

Inside the sparsely furnished cabin, she found Grieve, the retinue’s med-tech, working on Venicii’s life support system. The crop-haired woman nodded as Mzinga entered.

‘Grieve is making adjustments,’ Venicii stated. ‘The atmosphere on Carbis will be problematic for my systems.’

‘We’re landing?’ Mzinga raised an eyebrow. ‘My understanding was that we were simply repelling pirates.’

Venicii ignored the question. ‘Have you finished?’ he asked the med-tech.

‘I have, sir,’ Grieve said, tucking a las-knife behind her ear. ‘But I’ll need to keep a close eye on things.’

Venicii’s reply crackled through his augmetic voice box. ‘Very well. You may leave us, Medicae Grieve. I have something to show you,’ he said, turning to Mzinga as Grieve gathered her tools and left the cabin.

Mzinga took the battered book that Venicii proffered her.

‘What is this?’ she asked, turning the scarred leather covers to reveal pages of spidery script.

‘The journal of the last person to leave Carbis alive, a century ago.’

Mzinga frowned. ‘I thought everyone was stranded when the warp storms closed in.’

‘The mining settlers were. Haspard Gorgoin, the rogue trader who brought them there, escaped.’

‘How does this help us?’ Mzinga asked. She deliberately kept her tone neutral, but Venicii had known her too long. He regarded her with his piercing blue eyes for a moment. Despite the extensive augmetics that kept his frail form alive, he was still imposing.

‘Because it is the only extant document on Carbis,’ he snapped. ‘You will make a study of the notes and plan our entry point. I’ve marked our destination.’ He paused. ‘You’re frustrated, I know,’ he said. ‘Patience is not a virtue of yours, Esme, and you are wondering why we have come to this Emperor-forsaken corner of the Imperium, and if it best serves our broader mission.’

Mzinga held her face in an amiably blank expression, something she had learned from Venicii himself.

He continued. ‘You are young. You wish to be battling the xenos enemies of mankind. But you think too literally. I have been fighting all of my long life and have come to learn that it is through knowledge that we will undo them.’ Venicii allowed himself a small smile. ‘You will learn that, or you will die. Take the journal. You’ll need it to plot a course. Carbis has an unusual radiation profile and there are limited landing locations. Gorgoin’s notes should help. Take us as close as you can to the centre of the northern continent.’

‘Sir – can I ask what you hope to find?’

Something passed across Venicii’s face and he paused. ‘Remains, Esme. Of an ancient xenos race.’

Mzinga’s expression betrayed her. ‘We’re planning to make planetfall with a crew of five on a xenos world?’

Venicii gave her a sharp stare. ‘Remember your place, interrogator. I have charted more worlds than you have seen days.’

Mzinga nodded, chastened. Their relationship may have been strained of late, but Venicii remained a legend of the Inquisition – he had been dismantling xenos-worshipping covens, thwarting alien warlords, and condemning worlds beyond absolution for centuries. During Mzinga’s service to him alone he had halted an aeldari conspiracy to abduct the ruling families of the Mycrx Cluster, exterminated two hrud infestations, and returned the subjects of the colony of Aesteria to the Emperor’s light after removing the t’au agents responsible for its attempted subversion.

Venicii continued, ‘I expect only traces on Carbis. It’s a primitive world. Gorgoin makes no mention of living creatures having evolved on the planet other than insects. We will complete a survey, but I expect no impediments.’

‘What of the settlers?’

‘If any survive, I’m sure they will be pleased to be welcomed into the Imperium once more.’ He picked up a data-slate. ‘I need you to use the journal to plot astrometry for our landing. The terrain will preclude landing at this site, but I want you to take us as close as possible.

Venicii turned back to his papers and Mzinga knew the audience was over. She left quietly to piece together Gorgoin’s notes.

It became apparent fairly quickly in Mzinga’s reading that Haspard Gorgoin had not been of sound mind. Or at least that he had not left Carbis in sound mind. The record started out neatly, with astrometric information, geographic plots and bland, detailed descriptions of the landscape and climate. But halfway through, disturbing marginalia started to appear – sketches, and nonsensical notes which appeared to have been made in code. A particular image snagged Mzinga’s eye again and again. Gorgoin had been no artist, but there was something deeply wrong with the picture of a citadel she kept flicking back to. The man appeared to have lost the ability to present perspective. The steps and arches of the city warped unnaturally, their lines and curves a physical impossibility. But she focused on the task at hand. Inquisitor Venicii had wanted her to plot a safe landing, and that was what she did.

Carbis was intolerably humid, and the retinue’s equipment was struggling with the unusual planetary radiation. There was a day’s trek from their landing site through the jungle to the location Venicii wanted to investigate. It was hard going. Only Samazan seemed to be unaffected, at home beneath the thrusting trees and tangled vines. He had been bounding ahead, and shouted back to the others that he had found something. They caught him up to discover him examining a cache of equipment.

‘This must have belonged to the settlers,’ Mzinga said, after they cracked open one of the storage crates and surveyed the blasting charges, rock drills and mining lasers.

‘It hasn’t been opened until now,’ Grieve said, examining the seal.

‘Take a break,’ said Venicii. ‘I’m going to consult my papers.’

‘I’ll need to look at your rig, sir,’ said Grieve. ‘If the terrain is going to get any rougher I’ll need to make further adjustments.’

‘I’ll survey the route ahead and let you know,’ Mzinga said.

Mzinga slashed at the dense foliage. She was glad of the time to herself, although as she worked mechanically, the image from Gorgoin’s journal crept in at the edges of her consciousness. She pushed it away, and instead pulled forward the memory of her first meeting with Venicii. It hadn’t been particularly auspicious, but she cherished it. At that moment, her life had diverged. He had seen something in her, something that had been her ticket out of the gangs and off the planet. Which was just as well, given what had happened to it.

‘Interrogator Mzinga.’

She turned in surprise at the sound of Venicii’s voice, pausing mid-machete slash. Her dark skin glowed in the greenish light that filtered through the jungle canopy.

‘Inquisitor?’ she asked, wiping sweat from her forehead.

Behind her Venicii moved through the remains of the cleared plant life, sending up a sickly stink of vegetal death as he crushed vines and fleshy leaves. The inquisitor emerged into the small clearing like a furious insect, the thrashing blades of his support rig knifing into the loam as they propelled his ancient form forward.

Mzinga lowered the machete and regarded her mentor warily. He had been in a foul mood since they came planetside. As Grieve had predicted, the conditions on Carbis had been playing havoc with his non-organic components, which – for an ordo agent as venerable as Venicii – constituted the majority of his body.

He cleared his voice box with a burst of static. ‘Did you in fact read the narrative section of Gorgoin’s journal?’

‘I looked at it. But he was insane. His writings are largely incomprehensible.’ Mzinga absently used the tip of the machete blade to dislodge a parasitic wasp that was encroaching onto her forearm.

‘We deal in uncertainties. You must learn to read them. You’ll never be a savant, but you’ll never be an inquisitor either if you don’t learn more discipline.’

Mzinga felt a flicker of anger at that. She had kept the crew in check for months whilst Venicii pursued an unknown project. But she nodded, throwing her long braids over her shoulder.

‘Yes, inquisitor.’

Venicii regarded her for a few moments; then the legs of his support rig chittered to life. ‘We’re moving out in an hour.’

She turned to resume hacking.

‘Had you properly read Gorgoin’s notes, you’d know to slash upward, rather than downward.’

Mzinga rolled her broad shoulders and glanced around. ‘Can I ask why, sir?’

‘Because you’re the last interrogator I will train. And I want that to be because my active service is at an end, not because you’ve dragged a lance spider onto your head.’

Mzinga jumped and brandished her machete as a huge arachnid chittered away from a vine a few inches above her.

It was nearing dusk when they hacked their way into a clearing and saw the xenos. Mzinga felt her heart in her mouth as she halted, and threw an arm across Mace’s chest to stop her walking any further. Half a dozen pale grey figures were lounging around a gully on the opposite side of a river. Silently, Mace whipped her long-las over her shoulder and took aim. Mzinga signalled for her to pause, and gestured for Grieve, Venicii and Samazan to approach silently. The bulky Catachan moved with surprising grace, carrying a scope.

‘Humanoid and unarmed,’ he reported in a mutter. ‘Just shy of six foot. Medium build.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Ugly.’

‘Let me see.’ Venicii spoke with his voice box turned down low. There was a gentle whirr as his augmetics focused.

Mzinga stared through Samazan’s scope. However many xenos you saw, you never became fully accustomed to the horror of them. And you never should, the inquisitor had taught her. He had told her to hold that terror close. She didn’t need to try very hard to do that now – despite the heat of the jungle, a chill ran down her spine. The aliens looked like corpses walking, living bones animated by some unholy force. That’s just armour, she told herself. The configuration may be unusual, but it is just armour.

‘I don’t recognise the species,’ she said aloud.

‘Neither do I,’ said Venicii after a moment. There was a stunned silence. Venicii was one of the most respected xenos experts within the Imperium – if he didn’t recognise this species, they were in uncharted waters.

Mzinga saw the looks on the others’ faces. ‘Inquisitor Venicii, I suggest we should record some picts, then examine what we’re dealing with. Make sure we’re properly equipped.’

‘We need more information, certainly,’ Venicii agreed. ‘Mace, shoot one.’

Mace glanced askance at the inquisitor, but his expression was stony. The trapper hitched her long-las onto her shoulder and cracked off a shot. One of the xenos jerked as if pulled by a string, and ichor spattered on the ground. As soon as the sound had rung out, the others fled with inhuman speed, vanishing back into the jungle.

‘Mzinga, with me,’ Venicii barked. ‘Mace, Samazan, Grieve – provide cover.’

Mzinga followed Venicii with her autopistol drawn. Her instincts were screaming at her, but she wasn’t about to disobey her inquisitor. She pulled a rebreather over her nose and mouth with one hand. Venicii’s life support unit would protect him from xenos contamination, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. The rest of the retinue fanned out around them as they left the protection of the trees to stand in the fierce sun next to the alien corpse.

Flies were already swarming around it, and the rebreather did little to neutralise the stench. Mace had shot it through one eye, but the other stared open, milky with a white membrane. It had appeared humanoid from a distance, but close to, Mzinga could see the form of the corpse was far from familiar. She had been wrong about the armour.

‘Is it a carapace?’ she asked, kneeling to stare at the body. It was covered in bones that rose, ridged and shroud white, from the skin.

Venicii manipulated one of his motor blades to push at the sickly mottled flesh between the ossifications. ‘Possibly. Very interesting.’

‘No clothing or jewellery. That doesn’t tell us much.’

‘It doesn’t need additional protection. This exoskeleton is tough.’ He rapped on a chest that looked horribly like an external ribcage. ‘It’s lucky for us that Mace made a clear shot through the eye, into the brain.’

Mzinga probed at the side of its flat face with the heel of her knife, then pushed its lip up.

‘No obvious venom glands. Or fangs. And no retracting claws. But’ – she examined the hand – ‘there are bony spurs on the carpals that could be used in combat.’

‘It’s primitive.’ Venicii stared down at the corpse. ‘But effective. And seemingly unnecessary on a planet with no predators larger than a small canid.’

‘What is it?’ She squinted up through the sun at Venicii.

‘That might tell us.’ He was staring at something behind her, his mind already elsewhere.

She glanced around and saw a stone tablet embedded in a thicket of fleshy leaves. She reprimanded herself inwardly. She should have noticed it before, but had been transfixed by the alien. The tablet stood as tall and wide as a human, and was covered in symbols.

‘Is your archive functioning?’ she asked Venicii.

‘No. The radiation is blocking communication to the shuttle – I can only access what is stored in my onboard cogitator.’

‘I don’t recognise the script.’

‘There are some similarities to various elder languages, but the configuration is unfamiliar to me.’ Venicii moved forward, running his gloved hands over the inscription.

Mzinga glanced around. ‘I’ll take some picts and we can get back to the shuttle.’

‘Get back?’ Venicii echoed, not looking around. ‘We aren’t going back.’

Mzinga’s stomach clenched. ‘Inquisitor?’

Venicii turned, eyes burning. ‘Don’t you see? We nearly have it in our grasp.’

Mzinga stepped back. This was not the cool, clinical inquisitor she had known for years.

‘We move on,’ he said firmly.

Mzinga blinked. ‘Respectfully, inquisitor, we didn’t anticipate the xenos. We should…’ She petered out under the strength of his stare.

‘Interrogator, if I want recommendations I will ask for them. We are moving on. Leave any unnecessary equipment here. We need to move fast. Weapons only.’

Mzinga’s brows knitted. ‘Shall I at least have Grieve take samples of the alien to test for toxicity? To equip us for any further encounters?’

Venicii grimaced. ‘Fine. Quickly. She’ll have to make the analysis as we move.’

Mzinga nodded, and signalled for the others to follow as they headed deeper into the jungle.

The xenos tablets, markers, whatever they were, appeared more regularly as they travelled, rising from gnarled tree roots and half obscured by orchid-laden creepers. Mace was jittery, her gun ready in her hands. Mzinga herself had her fingers wrapped firmly around her autopistol. Grieve was taciturn as usual, and even Samazan had stopped joking. The retinue was tired and nervous, and the cloying atmosphere of the jungle was closing in. Inquisitor Venicii led the way, pausing to examine each tablet before setting off again.

Mzinga heard Grieve swear.

‘Are you all right?’ she called back.

Grieve limped round from behind a tree. ‘It’s another settler cache. A big one. Somehow I managed to walk right into it.’

Samazan kicked the seam-welded case that Grieve had knocked into. ‘You’re lucky this one is sealed. Looks like more explosives.’

Grieve rubbed her foot. ‘I feel very lucky.’

‘Come on!’ Mace hissed, coming up behind them. ‘He’s not waiting for you. We have to stay together.’

Venicii had nearly vanished in the thick foliage, and Mzinga ordered the others to catch up. She followed up the rear, and nearly crashed into the group when they suddenly halted. The others stood staring at something beyond the trees. Mzinga frowned, and brushed past Samazan to see.

They were standing at the edge of a valley which sloped into a shallow basin, and beyond was…

‘It’s massive,’ Grieve said.

‘A ruined city?’ asked Samazan.

‘No,’ crackled Venicii through his voice box. ‘A temple. The configuration is similar to others on adjacent worlds.’

‘It looks wrong,’ Mace said hollowly, and made the sign of the aquila.

She was right. The crumbled domes and arches piled on top of each other, furred with the green growth of the jungle, were jarring, startling to the eye somehow.

‘There are… disruptive geometries in the design,’ said Mzinga, her eyes watering as they tried to follow the lines of the structure but slipped away at the last moment.

‘Well spotted,’ said Venicii. Mzinga could hear his pict-recorder snapping images.

She had seen this before, in Gorgoin’s journal. He hadn’t been a poor artist; rather his subject was impossible and insane. And yet, here it was. Pillars and domes appeared to invert as the eye followed them. Staircases ran endlessly and impossibly, optical illusions that shouldn’t exist as solid objects – but here they were, defying the normal planes of expectation.

‘Samazan, how many aliens?’

‘There’s half a dozen around the perimeter. I can’t see any in the buildings from here,’ said Samazan, brow furrowing over his scope. A bead of sweat had appeared on the man’s head, the first time Mzinga had noticed him exhibit any visible sign of stress.

‘And do they appear different from the type we previously encountered?’ asked Venicii.

‘No, sir.’

‘Very well. Mace, eliminate the visible xenos.’

‘Gladly, inquisitor.’ Mace swung her gun up. A muscle clenched in her jaw as she sighted through the scope, and the silenced gun cracked out half a dozen shots.

Samazan watched the aliens drop through his scope. ‘Wait,’ he said, raising a hand and combing the buildings. ‘Seems clear,’ he reported.

‘Interrogator, follow behind. Mace, stay here and cover us.’

Mace sighed in relief at the news she wouldn’t be descending into the temple complex and took up station on a nearby rocky outcrop.

‘Grieve and Samazan, cover the rear. I need to enter the central dome.’

Mzinga made herself focus on the temple, despite her unease. ‘I suggest we enter via the east gate,’ she said, frowning. ‘Although the angles are… unreliable.’

‘That is what Gorgoin suggests,’ said Venicii.

Mzinga’s face twitched. ‘Very well,’ she said, realigning her grip on her autopistol.

Venicii’s support rig carried him easily down the sheer slope, slicing into the soft loam. The others skittered down, landing at the bottom in a spray of gravel. Mzinga’s eyes raked left and right, but there was no sign of movement.

‘We’re clear to enter.’

Venicii strode ahead, passing through distorted corbelled arches towards the central dome. Mzinga was aware of a pain in her left temple, at the strain of the shrieking discord of the place. She knew Samazan and Grieve must feel it too, but they didn’t complain. Venicii seemed unaffected, but his mind had been honed over centuries to resist the creeping horror of the xenos taint.

When they reached the central dome, Venicii began to climb its steep steps. Mzinga ordered the others to cover her, and jogged after him.

She started to ascend the steps, keeping her eyes on the dark entranceway into which her mentor had disappeared. Her eyes grazed across carvings on the lintel which could have been skulls or faces, but immediate nausea told her to look away. She gritted her teeth, and took the steps two at a time. Her shirt clung to her body, but as soon as she stepped inside the dome she felt a chill. Venicii was standing in front of a plinth in the echoing space. The high, curved ceiling was vaulted with strangely organic-looking stone spines and covered in symbols like those that had appeared on the tablets. Despite the darkness and silence, the place seemed too bright and too loud. Mzinga swallowed, and stepped forward.

‘Inquisitor?’ she said.

Venicii cradled something in his hands. ‘I have it, finally.’

Mzinga squinted at the small icon her mentor was holding.

‘It appears to be carved from volcanic stone,’ he said. ‘Very light, a high crystalline content, although I’ll need to examine it further to determine exactly what the material is.’

Mzinga looked from the relic to her mentor’s face. ‘What is it?’

‘Something I’ve been seeking for decades. It is a great and terrible thing, Mzinga. If it were to fall into the wrong hands…’

They heard a distant crack from Mace’s rifle. Then another. And another. Their presence had apparently been noted.

Mzinga readied her gun. ‘Inquisitor?’

Venicii was already stowing the relic. ‘Let’s go.’

They raced back down the steps from the temple building. Grieve and Samazan were waiting with their weapons drawn.

‘This way,’ called Venicii, leading them from the courtyard. Samazan ran ahead alongside the inquisitor with Grieve and Mzinga flanking.

They heard a further series of rifle cracks. Mace wouldn’t waste ammunition – one shot, one alien. That was a dozen xenos she had felled already. Mzinga brushed a loose braid from her face. She could hear her breath coming sharp and fast over the sound of their boots slapping on the stone pathways. Where were the xenos?

Samazan and Venicii disappeared round the corner of a walled walkway – and then the cry came, a distorted blare of sound over the vox.

Mzinga gritted her teeth and skidded around to follow them, raising her gun. Before she had registered what she was doing on a conscious level, her training took over and she found herself plugging rounds into the wall of pallid horror that was suddenly gibbering in front of her. The xenos filled the walkway, swarming over the party. They were so numerous that Samazan had to hurl them aside with his burly arms before he could hack into their eye sockets with his heavy combat blade. They were frenzied, clawing and biting, skull-faces distorted with rage, bleached-bone chitin clicking horrifically, tearing at the flesh of Samazan and Venicii with rigid bone-spurred claws. The inquisitor had drawn his inferno pistol and was incinerating xenos as they approached, but there were too many.

‘Fall back,’ blared Venicii over the vox. ‘There’s another way out.’

Samazan managed to pull the inquisitor free as Mzinga and Grieve spattered the carved walls with viscous brain matter.

Mzinga pushed her bloodied comrades out of the way, lobbed a grenade into the howling aliens, and ran as fast as she could. The shockwave floored the retinue but also quelled the onslaught momentarily.

‘We need to get into the open,’ she said, levering herself to her feet. ‘Mace can cover us from there.’

‘Shield the inquisitor,’ said Samazan, blood trickling down his face. ‘The bastards were dead set on taking him out.’

Mzinga looked at where Venicii had the relic stowed in his pack. ‘We move out,’ she said, conscious of the scrabbling sounds behind them.

Grieve looked around from behind Venicii’s back, where she had been adjusting his life support. ‘They’ve damaged your unit,’ she told him. ‘I’m going to need to repair it.’

‘Later,’ said Venicii. ‘Now, we must run.’

Samazan, Mzinga and Grieve formed a triangle around the inquisitor, with Samazan taking the lead. They heard the odd crack of Mace’s rifle, but the sound was deadened as they twisted through the walls of the city-temple.

‘According to Gorgoin’s notes, we’re about to enter an open plaza,’ Venicii said. ‘When we do, we will run north-east to the exit there.’

They rounded the corner and halted. The vast plaza was filling with xenos. They boiled from doorways in their hundreds and clattered across the square like a grey-white wave of spoiled meat.

‘We can’t wait. We must go now,’ said Venicii.

Samazan unslung his flamer with a slosh of promethium. ‘Then let’s go.’

The Catachan roared as he charged into the mass of xenos, his flamer spewing death and melting alien flesh as he stormed through their ranks. Venicii followed behind, blasting his antique inferno pistol whilst Grieve cracked off targeted shots from her laspistol.

The initial momentum Samazan had built up began to slow, and the xenos began to crowd in again. Mzinga picked off an alien just before it got to Venicii. They were all under attack, and Samazan was bleeding badly, but the most ferocious onslaught was still aimed at the inquisitor.

‘You need to leave the relic,’ she shouted.

‘No,’ Venicii crackled back, as he kicked away the charred remains of an alien.

Mzinga snarled as a xenos threw itself towards her face. She cracked her fist upwards and felt its jaw break under her hand. They were going to be overwhelmed. The only thing she could think of doing was seizing the relic and–

There was a sudden volley of shots and Grieve shouted, ‘It’s Mace. She’s clearing a path.’

They took the opening the trapper had made for them. Samazan was clearly tiring, and Mzinga pushed her way to the front to add power to their retreat. She knew from a glance that the big man was badly hurt, but still he continued to torch a path. Mzinga picked off two more xenos. Not much further, she thought, and they might just make it.

There was a sudden roar of agony on the vox. Mzinga stared around to see a trio of xenos clawing at Venicii. They had ripped through the outer structure of his support rig and were tearing into his flesh. Blood was already gushing from the stricken inquisitor. He had been covering Grieve after she stumbled, and the xenos had taken advantage of his momentary distraction. With a scream of fury, Mzinga leaped at the attackers, blasting them away from her mentor’s back in a spray of blood and ichor. Grieve was unharmed, and she and Mzinga each took one of Venicii’s arms and pulled him away. The inquisitor’s head lolled, but his pale hand gripped the relic still.

Samazan continued to fire his flamer, but his face was a shade of grey-green that Mzinga knew indicated a fatal injury. He held his firing arm over his stomach, barely holding in the glistening viscera that threatened to tumble out. She exchanged a glance with the Catachan.

‘You got any of those grenades left?’ he said with some difficulty.

Mzinga gripped his shoulder and wordlessly pressed one of the explosives into his hand.

‘Get out,’ the Catachan said, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth.

Mzinga and Grieve dragged Venicii away from the plaza, half running, half falling back into the cover of the jungle. As they passed into the filtered half-light beneath the canopy, there came the unmistakable howl of a plasma grenade, followed by a rush of blast-light. The sound of screaming xenos and smell of burning flesh blew past them on the winds of the explosion. Mzinga stared behind them, searching the trees for signs of pursuit, but none came.

‘That could have gone better,’ Grieve said, staring into the fire. They had made camp to treat injuries and rest, but nobody had got any sleep after the horrors of the day.

Mace scowled, and threw down her ration pack. ‘That’s all you can say?’

Grieve shrugged. ‘That’s all there is to say.’

Mace stormed off to sit by herself.

Mzinga shifted slightly to avoid sitting on a laceration, a challenge given the events of the day. ‘He was a good soldier,’ she said.

‘Yes. But in our work there’s always a price to pay,’ said Grieve.

Mzinga cleared her throat. ‘Do you think it was too high today?’

Grieve looked at her hands. ‘It’s not for me to say, interrogator.’

Mzinga glanced at the woman. Her face was unreadable. She had served Inquisitor Venicii loyally for decades. But everyone had a limit. She stared past the fire’s circle of light to the foetid darkness of the night-jungle beyond. ‘How is the inquisitor?’

‘Badly hurt but conscious. We need to get him off this planet as soon as we can move him.’ Grieve slapped an insect from her arm. ‘Nothing works here. His support rig is operating on hope and a prayer as it is.’

Mzinga looked across to Venicii’s tent. ‘He’s still working?’

‘Yes. He had his papers out. I don’t know if he’ll survive the night, but he’s still working.’ Grieve sighed, running a hand through her hair, then wiping it on her trousers. ‘I think that was xenos-brain,’ she said with a grimace.

‘How’s Mace?’ Mzinga asked, glancing to where the woman quietly hunched, praying under a blanket.

Grieve lowered her voice. ‘Not good. She’s taken some sedatives, but not enough.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’

Grieve gave Mzinga a meaningful look. ‘She was staring at that… city for longer than any of us. She had a prime view of them ripping into the inquisitor and taking Samazan apart. And she’s only a civilian. Don’t forget the monsters she’s used to hunting are a little different to ours.’

Mzinga rubbed her eyes. ‘She saved us earlier,’ she said.

‘I wouldn’t rely on it happening again,’ said Grieve.

‘Noted,’ said Mzinga with a nod. She made her way towards Venicii’s tent, pausing outside. ‘Inquisitor?’ she called in a low voice.

‘Enter,’ came the response.

She pushed the fabric aside, expecting to find her mentor tucked up against the cool of the night. Instead, Venicii was fully dressed, examining a spread of documents.

‘Interrogator!’ He beamed as she entered.

‘Sir,’ she said, frowning.

‘Look,’ he said, pointing at a series of runes on one of the pages in front of him. ‘It confirms everything. We have recovered a Lapis Mirabilis.’ His face was radiant, almost feverish.

‘What’s that?’

‘Something I’ve been seeking for decades.’

Mzinga stared at the stone. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, trying to keep the unease from her voice.

Venicii sighed. ‘I am older than you can imagine, Mzinga. I have been fighting humanity’s fight all of my life. And I have not seen things get better. For all the blood spilt, lives lost, planets destroyed – are we prevailing? Are we winning? Our enemies seek to destroy everything we are, everything we stand for.’ He clenched a fist. ‘And they come in terrible numbers, with terrible weapons. They will overcome us.’

Mzinga shook her head in disbelief. ‘The Imperium will prevail.’

‘Only if we are clever. Being strong isn’t enough. We must know our enemy in order to defeat them – however foul that enemy may be, and at whatever cost to ourselves.’

Mzinga’s eyes flickered to the stone. Venicii followed her gaze.

‘The Lapis Mirabilis is part of the knowledge,’ he continued. ‘It is spoken of in whispers across this sector. This is not the only one to have been discovered in this region. It is fabled to possess regenerative powers beyond anything known to man. In essence, immortality.’

Mzinga sat very still, staring.

‘You see now why I kept this from any other soul. I barely trust myself with the burden. How could I impose it on another?’ He shook his head. ‘Ever since destroying the cabal of the Darexi Warmaster, long before your time, I have chased rumours across the galaxy. At first I simply collected them as curiosities, but then I came to believe that there was too much evidence for it to be a myth. And then, when the storms of the immaterium rendered Carbis accessible once more…’ He trailed off.

‘And what do you intend to do with it?’ Mzinga asked.

He looked at her in surprise. ‘Study it,’ he said. ‘Understand how they created it. If a xenos race has this technology, how can we fight it? And I must prevent any others from recovering it. Can you imagine the harm it might cause in the hands of a xenos aggressor?’

‘Sir, I have to ask…’ Mzinga leaned forward, not knowing how her next statement would be received. ‘You are a very… venerable inquisitor, in possession of an engine of eternal life. It could extend your fight for humanity indefinitely.’

The implication hung in the air.

‘I don’t intend to use it, interrogator, if that’s what concerns you,’ he said firmly. ‘These past months have been difficult, but there is no cause for concern. Things are clearer now – clearer than they have been in a long time. We will need to call an Inquisitorial conclave to discuss this matter.’ He sighed. ‘But now, Medicae Grieve informs me it would be prudent to rest.’

Mzinga backed out of the tent and stood alone in the darkness for a few minutes, listening to the sound of the jungle. For the first time in her Inquisitorial career, she felt uncertain. And for the first time since she had known him, Venicii seemed fallible.

Mzinga kept watch for the first half of the night, before Grieve relieved her for a few hours’ rest. It took a long while before she finally drifted into a fitful sleep. It seemed as if no time had passed before someone was shaking her awake. She started when she opened her eyes.

‘Inquisitor Venicii?’ she blurted, her mind still heavy with sleep.

Her mentor knelt in front of her. ‘Come on, interrogator. Dawn has broken and we have work to do.’

Mzinga blinked sleep out of her eyes and stared up at Venicii. Grieve stood behind him, arms folded, face drawn.

‘You were wounded,’ Mzinga said.

‘Grieve has seen to that,’ he replied, proffering a hand.

Mzinga searched his piercing blue eyes. ‘We’re returning to the shuttle?’ she asked.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘It’s half a day’s walk so we should set off as soon as possible. I’ll guard the perimeter while you prepare.’

Grieve and Mzinga exchanged a glance as Venicii strode off.

‘So?’ Mzinga asked.

Grieve shook her head. ‘I don’t know, interrogator. I’ve never seen–’

There was a sudden crack of gunfire. They drew their weapons and ran towards the sound, finding Venicii standing over the corpse of one of the carapaced aliens.

‘I surprised it. I don’t think it was coming for us.’ He nudged it with a boot. ‘Pity, it would have made a good specimen. But we can’t drag it ten miles through the jungle.’

‘We could make an examination now,’ Mzinga said urgently. Her gut was telling her that something was very wrong, and that the xenos were at the core of it.

Venicii smacked the barrel of his gun thoughtfully against the palm of his hand. ‘It would allow us to make a more conclusive study. Establish a biological context for the xenos presence, contextualise the runes and settlement, and any other traces we’ve recorded.’

‘How far did you get with your sampling, Grieve?’ Mzinga asked.

‘Just the toxicity and poison work, interrogator. We didn’t have time to penetrate the carapace.’

Venicii nodded. ‘Take some further samples. Organs, tissue. But quickly. We leave within the hour.’

They watched as Grieve jogged away to pick up her kit.

‘How is Mace?’ asked Venicii.

Mzinga tore her eyes away from the corpse. ‘In shock. Grieve can’t do much here.’

Venicii nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do for her. We owe her our lives.’

Mzinga tied back her braids and rolled up her sleeves as Grieve returned with a pair of rebreathers. They fixed them over their faces and pulled on their gloves in silence. It took Grieve’s las-scalpel long minutes to penetrate the bony chestplate. Once it had been cracked open, Mzinga noticed the woman’s brow furrow as she pulled layers of xenos tissue apart. She continued, methodically slicing and probing, cutting and drilling samples as Mzinga held the cadaver open. Then Grieve suddenly stopped, and laid down her tools. She looked Mzinga in the eye and tugged her rebreather down.

Mzinga stared.

‘It’s all right,’ said Grieve, peeling her gloves off. ‘There’s nothing in there that can hurt us. It’s not an alien.’

Mzinga pulled off her rebreather. ‘What?’

Grieve rubbed her eyes. ‘It’s human. Was human,’ she corrected.

Mzinga stared down at the mass of flesh. Inside the carapace, the body was without structure, a mess of organs and tissue. ‘How can that be?’

‘Do you remember,’ Grieve said slowly, ‘what happened on Latimer?’

‘The genestealer cult?’

‘You remember we found an abominant?’

Mzinga winced. ‘Yes.’

‘It was metamorphosing when we found it. I think something similar has happened here.’

‘It’s not tyranid.’ Mzinga frowned.

‘No. But I think the reforming process was similar. Here, it looks like the chemical components of the bone in the body have broken down and reformed on the surface. The organs remain largely unchanged. But this,’ she said, tapping the carapace, ‘used to be inside this man. It was his skeleton.’

‘And now he’s wearing it,’ Mzinga spat.

‘It would have been excruciating,’ Grieve said bluntly.

‘What caused it? Are we at risk?’

The med-tech ran a hand through her bleached crop. ‘I can’t be sure, but it wasn’t caused by a biological agent. For something to happen at a cellular level like this…’ She stared ahead. ‘There’s the unusual planetary radiation, but I can’t see how that alone could do this. Do you have any idea what we’re dealing with?’

Mzinga stared at the carcass. ‘Something Inquisitor Venicii needs to know about.’

They found him with Mace at the campsite. The woman appeared calmer, and was methodically cleaning her gun.

‘Are we ready to leave?’ Venicii asked, rising as they approached. Then he saw their faces. ‘What’s wrong?’

Mzinga swallowed. ‘We haven’t been dealing with xenos, inquisitor. The creatures on this planet are human.’

‘Impossible.’

‘I would stake my reputation on it, sir,’ said Grieve. ‘They started out like us.’

Venicii stared between both women, realisation dawning. ‘The settlers,’ he whispered.

‘What?’ Grieve frowned.

‘You said it yourself, Grieve, they started out like us. Where else did all of these… inhabitants come from?’ he said grimly. ‘We need to report this immediately.’

‘We are going to become them.’ Mace was rocking, wide-eyed, cradling her gun. ‘We’re going to lose our minds and then our faces.’

Venicii gripped her shoulder firmly. ‘Have faith, Mace. We are departing this place.’

She stared up at him, eyes frantic.

Grieve quietly punched a shot of sedative into the woman’s arm, and she relaxed a little.

‘Sorry, Mace, but we can’t carry you,’ Grieve said curtly. ‘Come on. We’re leaving.’

As the others packed up, Mzinga drew Venicii to one side. ‘Inquisitor Venicii, are you still keeping the relic on your person?’

His eyes involuntarily flew to his pack. ‘That answered your question, I suppose.’ He smiled tightly.

Mzinga took a few deep breaths. ‘Have you considered that it may be affecting you?’

Venicii frowned. ‘I’ve taken the usual precautions, Interrogator Mzinga. It isn’t emitting any psychic resonance or substance. There is no explosive charge. It has no form of communications link, so cannot be controlled remotely.’

Mzinga nodded. ‘Yes. But you’ve made a miraculous recovery. And you told me that the relic is rumoured to have astonishing regenerative properties…’ She trailed off.

Venicii’s jaw worked as he considered this.

Mzinga’s hand slipped towards her pistol holster. Please don’t make me do this, she thought.

Venicii sighed. ‘Of course you’re right. We can’t be too careful.’ He produced the relic from his pack. ‘Will you seal it in a vac-flask? Then both of us may be sure my integrity is intact.’

‘Yes, inquisitor.’ Mzinga breathed in deeply, relief flooding through her body. She let go of her holster and took the relic from his hands. Now they could concentrate on getting off the planet alive.

The trek back through the jungle was hard. A storm was massing somewhere, and the unbearable humidity had increased. The change in pressure had also aggravated a breed of small biting fly, which swarmed thickly around them.

‘I hate this planet,’ stated Grieve matter-of-factly.

Mzinga laughed bitterly. ‘Give me a hive any day.’

Inquisitor Venicii set the pace, slashing ahead through the jungle. As the others tired, he seemed to gain more energy. Mzinga took the rearguard, watching her mentor storming through the dense undergrowth. Something wasn’t right, she knew it in her bones. Could the relic have affected his mind? She felt Grieve’s unease too. Venicii had been a dead man walking, he shouldn’t have survived the night, yet here he was, acting as if he were decades younger. There would be time to confront him when they got off the planet. She knew her duty, although she didn’t relish it.

They marched in silence until they reached the creek where they’d first found and shot one of the xenos-human creatures. Venicii was up ahead, examining the remains, which had already largely been devoured by insects. Mzinga saw with alarm that the inquisitor had removed his support rig and placed it by his side.

‘Inquisitor, can I check–’

She broke off in shock as he turned to face her. The Gorran Venicii who regarded her now was not the Gorran Venicii she had known. It wasn’t the Gorran Venicii anyone had known for a hundred years. His white hair had become sandy, his broad jaw firm. Although still scarred, his face was that of a man in middle age, not a venerable veteran inquisitor.

Mzinga stepped back, aghast.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘Inquisitor… your face.’

He stooped over the water and stared for a moment, brow creased. ‘I know that something is different, but I’m finding it hard to–’ He clutched his stomach and let out a cry of pain.

‘Sir?’

‘It’s happening. It’s happening.’ Venicii turned an anguished face to her, then howled, and toppled into the water, agony contorting his face.

Without hesitating, Mzinga dived in after him.

She dragged the unconscious inquisitor back to land. Away from the humidity of the forest, the blistering sun dried her clothes almost instantly as she lay him on the pebbled shore. Grieve was immediately at her side, grim-faced, checking Venicii’s breathing and heart rate.

‘He’s alive, but I don’t need to tell you that something’s wrong.’

‘He’s becoming them,’ Mace stated calmly from behind her.

Mzinga squinted round. ‘Make yourself useful and rig up a tent.’

Mace looked at her expressionlessly, then moved to the kit pack. Her sudden calm was worse than the hysteria had been. And Mzinga was afraid that the unhinged trapper was speaking the truth.

‘I’m going to administer a painkiller but I don’t know what else to do,’ Grieve said, before shooting Mzinga a sideways look. ‘Do you think she’s right?’ she said quietly.

‘We can’t assume anything,’ said Mzinga curtly.

Grieve nodded, and moved off.

Mzinga reached her hand inside Venicii’s jacket, and withdrew the vac-flask. The relic glinted inside. She stared at it, hatred boiling inside her. She was going to end this now.

She pulled the mag-locked inferno pistol from Venicii’s belt. She set the vac-flask on a rock and stood a couple of yards away – then raised the pistol and fired. There was a hiss as the air in the beam’s path boiled, and the membrane of the vac-flask immediately melted away. She squeezed the trigger harder, brow furrowed, teeth bared in anger. The flask had melted completely, and the rocks around it started to droop, glowing red with superheat. Mzinga was forced back a few paces due to the temperature, but she could see that the accursed relic was still there.

She was vaguely aware that Venicii was stirring. She broke off her fire and swore, throwing the gun to the ground, turning in frustration. Mace and Grieve were watching her.

‘That pistol’s an antique,’ Venicii said weakly from where he lay. ‘You should be more careful.’

‘I should be more careful?’ Mzinga snapped, glaring round at him. ‘You knew. You knew that it would rejuvenate you.’ She crouched next to the prone inquisitor.

‘I did not seek this, interrogator. I was careless, yes. Too eager to return the prize to my conclave. But I think it will do much worse than this,’ he said grimly. ‘I want to be sure. I will examine my papers one last time, if I may.’

Mzinga nodded, feeling cold dread fall on her with the weight of his words.

It took everything Venicii had to pore over his transcriptions, cross-referencing the picts he had taken of the runes. Eventually he sat back, passing a hand across his face. He kept it there as he spoke.

‘I have made a terrible mistake.’

Mzinga watched him.

‘I have misinterpreted a key sigil. Had I been more patient…’ His voice faded away.

‘Sir?’

He sighed. ‘The relic we recovered, the item which I have been seeking for many years, is not at all miraculous or regenerative.’

Mzinga frowned. ‘But it healed you, and made you younger.’

‘A side effect of its primary purpose. The crystalline fabric of the relic focuses the planet’s radiation to reshape those nearby.’

‘But why?’

‘I would speculate that this planet is an ancient factory, Interrogator Mzinga. A munitions factory, producing thralls for a species unknown, for a conflict no longer remembered.’

‘So the settlers were mutated by chance?’

‘I believe so. And I, by greed.’ Venicii dropped his hand from his face.

Mzinga started. The inquisitor’s skin had become pallid, shot through with black veins, and his eyes were clouded with a milky membrane.

Wordlessly, she drew her autopistol and aimed it at his head.

Venicii swallowed with some difficulty. ‘Don’t you wish to find a cure for your mentor? Some antidote for one who has saved your life countless times?’ It was strange to hear his voice coming from this terrible visage.

‘No,’ Mzinga said, feeling certainty rise up within her. ‘I wish to put a bullet in your skull.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Inquisitor Gorran Venicii is already dead. He died the moment he let his guard drop. The moment he forgot his duty.’

Venicii looked at her for a moment, the expression of his distorting face difficult to read. Then he nodded.

‘Good.’

Something that Mzinga took to be a smile crossed his lips. He scrabbled in his papers, and Mzinga silently thumbed her weapon’s hammer.

‘Don’t worry, interrogator,’ Venicii said without looking at her. ‘I merely wanted to give you this.’ He dropped something into Mzinga’s hand.

She stared down at it.

‘You are ready. You were, are, willing to do what must be done in service to the God-Emperor, no matter the cost. You will take up His fight now.’

Mzinga’s fingers closed around the object. Her heart swelled with pride and pain. She had never imagined it would happen this way.

‘And now, Inquisitor Mzinga, there is one last thing I can do.’

Mzinga regarded him cautiously.

‘We cannot leave the relic or temple intact. I would rather that those things which were once settlers were destroyed along with myself.’

‘Agreed.’

‘You cannot fly the shuttle nearby, so someone will need to destroy them in person. I would like to die before I lose my faculties, so we have a willing volunteer. We also have several tons of mining explosives already in the jungle which should serve to annihilate the buildings and degenerated settlers.’

‘And what of the relic?’

‘I believe it works by magnifying the harmonics of Carbis’ radiation. So it will not function off-planet.’ He paused. ‘Your efforts with my inferno pistol will have weakened the crystalline structure, albeit invisibly, but a hand weapon cannot destroy such a thing. Several tons of fyceline, however, will.’

Mzinga nodded. ‘We have to hurry. We don’t know how long you have.’

‘Agreed. My energy has returned, but this could herald another phase in the mutative process.’

They found Mace sitting cross-legged outside the tent, nursing her long-las. Grieve lay a few yards away, drooling on the ground.

‘I heard everything,’ Mace said, looking up at them both. She seemed unbothered by Venicii’s appearance.

‘What have you done to Grieve?’ asked Mzinga.

‘She tried to sedate me again, but I turned the dose on her instead. She doesn’t understand.’ She looked up at Venicii. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘I won’t be returning,’ the former inquisitor said.

‘I know. The Emperor wills it,’ she said, standing. ‘I will shoot the xenos-humans, and if you become one, I will shoot you. And then I will find peace,’ she added tonelessly.

Venicii shrugged. ‘Then so be it.’ He turned to Mzinga. ‘Wait until it’s done. You must be sure.’ He looked down at the unconscious med-tech. ‘Give Grieve my regards. I am pleased she didn’t need to see me this way. Serve with honour, Inquisitor Mzinga.’

With that, Venicii turned on his heel and disappeared into the jungle with Mace drifting behind him like a ghost. Mzinga watched them leave, then lifted Grieve over her broad shoulders and carried her back to the shuttle.

She sat in the pilot’s seat for a few moments, staring blankly at the object Venicii had given her. She pushed it open, and a mechanism shimmered a hologram above it. The Inquisitorial seal, the badge of authority endowing her with the power to destroy worlds. She snapped it closed.

Explosions rippled out like white blossom over the jungle as Mzinga held the shuttle stationary in the lower atmosphere. She cleared her throat, then spoke into her vox-recorder.

‘Let it be recorded that Inquisitor Gorran Venicii died in the service of the Emperor on the planet Carbis, Domina Sector. He discovered the dangerous regenerative technology of an unknown xenos species. The technology was subsequently destroyed, the inquisitor giving his life in the process of doing so, alongside two members of his retinue. This matter will be brought to the attention of the Inquisitorial Grandmaster of the Domina Sector. This report has been filed by Interrogator Esme Mzinga, appointed in the field to the rank of inquisitor.’

She thumbed off the vox-recorder and sat back. On the co-pilot’s seat beside her were Venicii’s papers, with Gorgoin’s journal atop them. She watched the fire below for a few moments longer. Then she sighed deeply. The galaxy was full of horrors, and it was her duty to confront them. Everything in her life had been leading up to this moment. She was the last inquisitor Gorran Venicii would ever train, and she swore to herself that she would be the strongest. She would not make his mistakes.

Inquisitor Mzinga left orbit, the planet burning behind her.

THE ROAR OF THE VOID

Rob Young

Another agent of the Ordo Militarum, Inquisitor Callida Rohm, features in the following report, which details her investigation of the combined Tallarn and Ventrillian regiment known as the ‘Dust Devils’ in order to ascertain its loyalty to the Imperium following an encounter with [REDACTED]. With the able assistance of Commissar Loren Poole, Rohm must contend not only with rank upon rank of tight-lipped Guardsmen but also a ticking chrono, as a voidship rapidly ferries the regiment to its next deployment. I consider this report to be a cautionary tale, warning against the dangers of [REDACTED].

1

Callida Rohm’s stomach churned as the shuttle entered the planet’s gravity envelope.

She’d never baulked at void travel, traversing the endless press of nothingness that connected systems and held worlds apart, but the subtle grasp of gravity and its waves of merciless nausea had her praying, miserably, to the Emperor.

She let out one long, slow breath and tried to concentrate on the data-slate in her lap.

The road to Siennon has been long and not without strife. I was fortunate enough to accompany Battle Group Haephestus in their most holy crusade through the Nappolis System, cleaving through the heretics that had taken root in humanity’s most sacred soil…

She rolled her eyes at the scholar’s florid prose and endless genuflection. It took real imagination to call any of the worlds of the Nappolis System ‘sacred soil’. It was a backwater cluster of worlds whose strategic significance was down to its proximity to an important transit corridor, rather than its own merits. After almost fourteen months of necessarily brutal campaigning across three satellite worlds to the capital world, Siennon, Astra Militarum forces had finally put down the Chaos cult that had usurped Imperial rule. Calling themselves the Scions of Carnage, the cult had infiltrated planetary defence forces across the system, ready to turn their weapons on the helpless populace when their opportunity arrived.

That opportunity had arisen when the Cicatrix Maledictum had cursed the skies, cutting off the light of the Astronomican and leaving the Nappolis System in darkness, like countless others across mankind’s domain.

Despite the speed with which the Indomitus Crusade had been assembled and dispatched, the cultists had had years to entrench themselves across the system, shedding innocent blood in tribute to their accursed false gods. The details of the scholar’s work were almost cruelly brief in that regard: Imperial victories were important to record for posterity, the disposition of the enemy was not.

She gave up after a few more lines, returning to another document on her data-slate, one headed with the barred ‘I’ of the Inquisition.

She’d read the document several times en route to Siennon, but it never hurt to be thorough.

Inquisitor Rohm,

Rendezvous with the transport The Emperor’s Light above Siennon and ensure the loyalty of the combined Ventrillian Seventh Armoured Dragoons and Tallarn 135th Armoured Infantry (the ‘Dust Devils’).

Intercepted communications suggest possible heretic cultist involvement (Vox-thief record: ‘Scions of Carnage’ attached).

The Emperor’s Light will dock at Cerberus in nine days (Terran standard) for resupply and to take on cargo for Fleet Tertius. Your investigation must be completed prior to docking.

In the Emperor’s Name

Lord Inquisitor Feodor Thaddeus Nerric

Acting Commander of the Ordo Militarum (Fleet Tertius)

Rohm’s finger hovered over the attached audio file. She’d listened to it a number of times and knew it made for difficult listening, even with sonic scrubbers and with the best enhancement that her technicians could perform. Other than the occasional screamed blood oaths, only two phrases were clearly audible: ‘Dust Devils’, and ‘Ours’.

As far as evidence of heresy went, it was thin, but men had been executed for far less. However, in the Indomitus Crusade of the Imperial Regent and Primarch Returned, Roboute Guilliman, resources weren’t abundant enough that experienced soldiers could be thrown away on a single intercepted transmission between enemy agents.

Not if she did her job properly, in any case.

‘Ten minutes to docking, inquisitor.’ The pilot’s voice crackled across the shuttle’s vox.

Rohm pushed herself to her feet and moved to the cockpit, a cramped afterthought on the front of the already cosy shuttle interior. Inside, her pilot sat in his utilitarian throne, the haptic implants on the skin of his hands allowing him to operate the shuttle without assistance.

‘Is that her?’ Rohm asked, pointing out of the viewports at the ungainly, brutish slab of crenellated iron that filled the forward screens. She recalled that The Emperor’s Light was a variant of the Carrack-class hauler: four sizeable cargo bays attached to a central thoroughfare, with a bridge section to the front and an engine to the rear. A class of ship that was as reliable as it was unremarkable.

‘Yes ma’am.’ The pilot nodded, flicking experienced hands over the controls and slowing their approach. ‘The Emperor’s Light. She’s an old ship now, but she still serves.’

‘I know the feeling,’ Rohm said, her hands moving unconsciously to the faded scars below her ears, the subtle evidence of her most recent rejuvenat treatments. Despite her advancing years, she had the appearance, strength and athleticism of a woman half her age – a useful asset when dealing with Astra Militarum soldiers in peak physical condition.

She moved back to the passenger compartment, and prepared her spartan belongings: a data-slate, a reinforced greatcoat and a snub-nosed plasma pistol.

Nine days was going to be tight. But Rohm would uncover the truth.

Major Cross, commanding officer of the Dust Devils, looked up from his data-slate as his men moved to and fro securing tanks and unloading surplus ammunition. The journey to Hub-Fortress Cerberus was a short one, but long enough to complete much-needed maintenance after a lengthy campaign.

‘Your armour, sir,’ said a voice at his elbow. His adjutant, Linail, stood to attention, holding out his freshly polished ebon flak armour. A hangover from Cross’ predecessor, Linail was over sixty years old, half blind, and something of a relic of the Ventrillian Seventh Armoured’s past glories.

‘Thank you, lieutenant,’ Cross said, exchanging the data-slate for the armour. ‘See these files transcribed into the records and transmitted to fleet command.’

‘Very good, sir,’ Linail replied with a crisp salute, before turning on his heel and striding off towards the massive double doors that led deeper into the ship. Cross watched the older man leave, wondering how he could remove him from his duties without breaking his heart.

Sighing, Cross shrugged into his armour and fastened the clasps, enjoying the nostalgic smell of fresh buffing powders and the mirror sheen.

The clack of hobnailed boots on hard deck plating drew his attention as Captain Bilal Al-Rahman, his second-in-command, approached from where the Tallarn contingent were securing their Chimeras.

‘What have you found out?’ Cross muttered. Despite the roar of Chimera and Leman Russ engines, he desperately didn’t want to be overheard.

‘No one heard anything,’ Al-Rahman said in a hushed voice. ‘We’re the only ones who were on the channel. The only ones alive, anyway.’

‘You’re certain?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Al-Rahman said, nodding. ‘I’ve briefed them, but if they don’t know anything then they can’t say anything.’

‘Ignorance is their best defence,’ Cross quoted, taking a long, calming breath. ‘If we’re wrong, I doubt we’ll live long enough to regret it.’

Both men watched as the black-hulled shuttle entered the cargo bay, shielding their eyes as the retrothrusters burned to slow its descent to the deck. Imperial Navy officers strode onto the deck, accompanied by several dignitaries and other hangers-on, ready to welcome the inquisitor.

2

‘Welcome to The Emperor’s Light, madam inquisitor.’

Rohm made her way down the shuttle’s steps as they unfolded from the hull, her exaggerated slowness covering the sense of unease she felt in the pit of her stomach. The shuttle’s grav-field was warring with that of The Emperor’s Light, and it felt like her body was the battleground.

‘My thanks, Captain Perez,’ Rohm replied, keeping her tone even and clear. She looked past Perez to the gathered Tallarn and Ventrillian soldiers, who had fallen silent, but for the idling of their tank engines. ‘Perhaps we should speak privately?’

Less than half an hour later the inquisitor had been escorted to the bridge by the captain, through a maze of bulkheads and cramped corridors, saluting crew and fearful glances.

Perez’s briefing room was to the rear of the bridge, a clinical space dominated by a central holotable, all steel walls and little in the way of decoration or comforting features. Rohm declined the offered recaff, amasec or purified water.

‘I will not lie, inquisitor,’ Perez said as the doors closed behind her, ‘I am at a loss as to why you’re on my ship.’

‘Guilty conscience, captain?’ Rohm said coldly, before cracking a wry smile. ‘I’m not here for you or your crew specifically. If I find anything improper then I am of course duty-bound…’

‘You will find nothing of the sort amongst my crew,’ Perez cut in sternly.

Rohm took a moment to study the other woman. A lined face gave her a cold edge, a sense further compounded by her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a tight bun. But she gave off no telltale signs of lying, so either she was a competent liar or was perhaps telling the truth… Perhaps.

‘I’ll take that under advisement,’ Rohm said in a conciliatory tone. ‘But as I’ve already said, you and your crew aren’t my focus.’ Perez visibly relaxed, losing some of the tension in her shoulders.

‘Then how may we assist you?’

Rohm outlined her requirements: the need for a private space in which to conduct interviews, unrestricted access to all areas of the ship, a full crew manifest and the troop roster for the Dust Devils. Perez nodded along to each of these requests in turn.

‘Done. We’ll also pass on the bulk carrier manifests when they arrive.’

‘How many are you expecting?’ Rohm asked.

‘Four full carriers,’ Perez explained. ‘Around three thousand conscripts total.’

It was standard practice for Fleet Tertius to collect a tithe of conscripted recruits following the successful pacification of a world or system, to either refill diminished ranks or to form new regiments to fight on the next step of the crusade.

Rohm was beginning to regret being unable to bring her entourage – they were busy running her other investigations whilst she carried out this duty for Lord Inquisitor Nerric.

‘I’ll need those records too,’ Rohm replied.

‘Very well, ma’am,’ Perez said. ‘We’ll be under way as soon as the conscripts are aboard. I’ll be running an officers’ briefing once we leave orbit, which you are more than welcome to attend.’

‘An excellent idea, captain,’ Rohm mused. ‘It would be good to meet this Major Persimmon in the flesh. Though, I need to speak to Commissar Hirke as soon as possible, if you could summon him?’

Perez’s expression changed to one of confusion. ‘Both Major Persimmon and Commissar Hirke perished on Siennon. Have you not been made aware?’

Rohm was careful that her body language didn’t betray any change in her demeanour. Her team had supplied detailed files on Major Persimmon, from his earliest upbringing on Ventrillia and the exact amount paid to purchase his commission, to the exhaustive medical notes on the Styges-III knee replacement augmetic he’d received three years before, not to mention every report, dispatch and regimental communique he’d appeared in. Hirke had received the same treatment, with comprehensive records of his life spanning the years from before he entered the Schola Progenium to his most recent summary judgements.

‘I had not been informed, no.’ Rohm’s voice was cold. Perez winced.

‘Major Cross has command now,’ Perez said, consulting a small data-slate. ’He seems a good sort. Not what I expected, exactly.’ Rohm said nothing and simply raised an eyebrow: a simple technique that encouraged people to speak honestly without the application of direct pressure.

‘That is to say, he doesn’t come across like your usual Ventrillian. No airs or graces. The last Ventrillians we had aboard liked to emphasise their nobility.’

‘Interesting. Thank you for the insight,’ Rohm said, storing the information away in case it became pertinent.

‘Commissar Poole should be arriving with the conscripts shortly,’ Perez added, as if to redeem herself in the inquisitor’s eyes. ‘Hirke’s replacement. He’s inbound from the Siennon shipyards.’

‘Have him sent to me at the earliest opportunity,’ Rohm said with a nod of thanks. ‘But if you don’t mind, captain, I’d like to be shown to my quarters. It’s been a long journey…’

‘Of course,’ Perez said, opening the briefing room door. ‘Right this way.’

3

When Commissar Loren Poole arrived in Rohm’s office, he turned out to be the very image of a commissar: tall, austere, stern and imposing. His credentials backed up his personal demeanour: a career political officer with a reputation for ruthless discipline and a list of commendations to prove it.

‘Forgive me, inquisitor,’ Poole said in his clipped Mordian accent, once Rohm had finished outlining her assignment and his part in it, ‘but this hardly seems a matter for the Inquisition. Either the Dust Devils are under threat and it’s a security issue, or they’re about to turn traitor and it’s a matter for the Commissariat.’

‘Summary execution,’ Rohm said plainly.

‘The idea offends you?’ Poole said in surprise.

‘Not at all,’ Rohm replied, leaning forward in her chair. ‘But the idea of wasting the Imperium’s resources on a rumour offends me greatly. We aren’t so rich in men or materiel that we can throw away so many veterans on a rumour. Nine days of my time seems a small price to pay for such a force.’

‘My apologies, inquisitor,’ Poole said. ‘I didn’t mean to question your methods.’

‘No need to apologise. I simply ask that you understand – the Scions of Carnage are beaten, but not extinct. They evidently have designs on the Dust Devils, and I need your help to discover if Major Cross and his men are innocent targets or willing participants.’

‘I’d be honoured to assist you, madam inquisitor. But what happens if we reach Cerberus before you’ve discovered the truth?’ Poole asked evenly.

‘Then your laspistol may be required.’

‘I carry a bolt pistol, ma’am,’ Poole said with a wolfish smile.

Captain Perez’s briefing was a dull affair: several hours of administrative back and forth, billeting allocations and training plans. It was eventually decided that bay four would be set aside to house, drill and monitor the new conscripts en route to Hub-Fortress Cerberus.

‘We’re more than happy to assist with the new troops,’ Major Cross offered as the topic of discussion moved on to the needs of the conscripts.

‘My thanks to you, major,’ Linas Neyru said, inclining his head in response. Neyru was a nervous man, a former merchant from Khamarset conscripted as an officer in the 98th Siennite Regiment. ‘But it is my understanding that we are to take on training officers and equipment at Hub-Fortress Cerberus, and–’

‘Excellent idea, major.’ Rohm cut across Neyru, silencing the Siennon man with a stony glance. ‘Instil some of your Ventrillian discipline, perhaps?’

The room went silent as the inquisitor spoke, and all eyes turned to her.

‘Thank you, inquisitor,’ Major Cross said with a nod.

‘I think perhaps some Commissarial supervision wouldn’t go amiss,’ Poole added. He still wore his black peaked cap, and was the only person at the table wearing headgear other than Al-Rahman in his kafiya. It gave him an imposing air, like a bird of prey perched above them all, waiting to strike.

Of course, this exchange had been prearranged between Rohm and Poole before the briefing. Whilst Rohm investigated any internal threats to the Dust Devils, Poole was to scout any external threats from the ship’s crew and the conscripts.

‘Then we’re in agreement,’ Al-Rahman said, a wry smile cracking his features. ‘But perhaps some sleep first? After a fourteen-month campaign I’d like to get my head down for a few hours.’ He looked around the table, seeking agreement from the gathered officers and dignitaries. They agreed to begin the training in six hours’ time, giving the Tallarn, Ventrillian and Siennite passengers time to settle and prepare.

The assembled group began to disperse, with Captain Perez leaving for the bridge to start the process of breaking orbit.

‘Good work,’ Rohm said to Poole as the commissar approached.

‘Madam inquisitor?’

Rohm turned, surprised to be met by Major Cross and Captain Al-Rahman. Both made the sign of the aquila over their hearts.

‘Major Cross, was it?’ she asked, despite being fully aware of who he was.

‘Yes. A pleasure to meet you, inquisitor,’ Cross said, nodding to Rohm and Poole. ‘And you too, commissar. I must admit, I wasn’t expecting to see an inquisitor on this trip. I hope that it’s a matter of a convenient ride, rather than something my men and I should be aware of?’

Rohm studied the major. Perez was right; he didn’t have the entitled air of a typical Ventrillian Noble. His eyes were kind and warm, his expression friendly, and his body language exuded confidence rather than arrogance.

‘No loyal servant of the Emperor has anything to fear from the Inquisition,’ Rohm said evenly, ‘but the thousands of new conscripts from a world only recently liberated from the enemy…’

‘I understand, ma’am, say no more,’ Cross said with an easy smile and an almost imperceptible loosening of his posture – relief, perhaps?

‘Thank you, major,’ Rohm said, without returning the smile, then added, ‘I understand that you are quite new to your rank?’

‘I am indeed,’ Cross said, his smile faltering. ‘I was promoted after we lost Major Persimmon in the push on Khamarset.’

‘Well, I offer both my congratulations and commiserations on your loss, major,’ Rohm said, inclining her head.

‘My thanks,’ Cross said with a nod. ‘Have you met my second-in-command, Captain Bilal Al-Rahman of the Tallarn One Hundred and Thirty-Fifth?’ The shorter Al-Rahman inclined his head to both Poole and Rohm.

‘Welcome to the Dust Devils, commissar,’ Al-Rahman said cheerfully. ‘I understand you’ll be taking the place of the late Commissar Hirke?’

‘I will, though I understand that I’ve officially been attached to the Ventrillian Seventh Armoured Dragoons rather than the Tallarn One Hundred and Thirty-Fifth,’ Poole responded.

‘One and the same,’ Cross explained. ‘We were dubbed the Dust Devils a few years ago and the name stuck. Where are you joining us from, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘I was attached to the Thirty-Third escort wing aboard the Macharius In Excelsis, until I requested a transfer. I felt my calling lay in a more front-line role.’

‘Well, you’ll see a great deal of the front line with us, commissar,’ Al-Rahman said. ‘We’ve been in the thick of it since we entered the Nappolis System, fighting the Scions.’

‘How much contact did you have with these Scions of Carnage?’ Rohm asked evenly, recognising the opportunity to glean a little more information from the two officers.

‘Daily,’ Cross cut in, ‘though I’d say it wasn’t so much contact as taking aim.’

‘What were they like?’ Poole pressed.

‘A blood cult,’ Al-Rahman explained, wincing at the memory. ‘Mostly members of the planetary defence forces who turned on their own people. Once they ran out of innocents to murder they started bleeding each other. Covered in scars. Screaming like lunatics.’

‘I’d spit on their memory, but it’s not something one does in polite company,’ Cross said in a clear attempt to try and break the tension. ‘I’m afraid Captain Al-Rahman and I have duties to attend to. A pleasure to meet you, madam inquisitor, and I’ll see you at training, Commissar Poole.’

With that, Cross and Al-Rahman took their leave. Poole and Rohm watched them go, neither saying a word.

4

Rohm used the next six hours to read all of the gathered resources that she was able to uncover on Major Cross and Captain Al-Rahman.

Major Rikkard Cross didn’t have the typical background of an officer in the Ventrillian Nobles regiments: his father had been killed in a mining accident when he was a child, leaving him in the care of the Schola Progenium until he was old enough to take up a commission in the Astra Militarum. In the intervening years he had won commendation after commendation, rising to command the Shadowsword Heracles in the Ventrillian Seventh Armoured Dragoons.

Not that there was much left of the Seventh Armoured Dragoons. The brutal and unforgiving nature of the Indomitus Crusade was not kind to autocratic regiments like the Ventrillian Seventh, and they had withered under the command of a series of overbred nobles.

‘They’re heading for refounding,’ Rohm whispered to herself, ‘or extinction.’

The files on Captain Bilal Al-Rahman painted a much different picture. He had earned his position with the courage, grit and bloody-minded determination that exemplified the troops Tallarn produced. His commendation file far outstripped Cross’: where the tanker’s tactical acumen had been widely praised, Al-Rahman’s file was peppered with phrases like ‘with no regard for his own safety’ and ‘surely under the Emperor’s protection’. He’d been honoured with command of a detachment of three hundred soldiers to be attached to the Ventrillian Seventh over six years before, but after the rest of the Tallarn 135th had been wiped out in a separate action, Al-Rahman’s detachment had had nowhere to go back to. Like most difficult problems within the Astra Militarum, it seemed as if they had simply been forgotten.

What was clear from their records was that both men appeared to be loyal and steadfast servants of the Emperor. Barring any undisclosed psychological or supernatural issues, Rohm couldn’t see how either man might betray the Imperium that they had served so diligently.

Absently, she flicked through the reports that Cross had submitted since taking command of the Dust Devils. Each action report was perfect in form and structure, and she scrolled through her data-slate to the final action on Khamarset.

It is with great regret that I report the loss of Major Otto van Persimmon and the death of Commissar Erberan Hirke. I am also aggrieved to report the deaths of…

Rohm’s finger lingered over the terms Cross had used in his report, and the long list of deaths and destroyed tanks.

‘The loss of Major Persimmon?’ she mused. It was surprisingly indirect language, especially in an official report filled with lists of the dead.

The hour was late and her body was crying out for sleep. Her eyes were gritty and her body ached, both from a lifetime’s service and the scarring of long-healed wounds.

With a muttered curse, Rohm navigated back to the first report Cross had submitted in the Nappolis campaign. Her instincts told her that deeper truths were hidden somewhere in his words, and sleep would not come until she found them.

Two decks below, Captain Bilal Al-Rahman cleaned himself with the two minutes of lukewarm water he was allocated per thirty-six-hour cycle. He had already barricaded the entrance to his private quarters with the bed, and used the small table and chair to block the door to his washroom.

Calmly, he spread out his bedroll on the dull steel floor and sat facing the door, his rifle across his knees and his combat knife on the floor next to him.

It took him almost an hour to drift off into a fitful sleep, where he dreamed of impossible beasts and a voice on the vox that screamed for blood.

5

For the next two days, Commissar Loren Poole set to work with a single-minded focus, interviewing conscripts and observing the Dust Devils in their training.

Inquisitor Rohm had honoured him by including him in her investigations, and he was determined not to let her down. In his mind, there was no greater calling to a loyal member of the Imperium than rooting out heresy, sedition and corruption, and he would repay her trust by finding the evidence she needed.

As he looked out over the cavernous Bay Four at the thousands of training conscripts, he knew in the pit of his stomach that he would find something.

Across the deck, the Tallarn troops led the conscripts in basic hand-to-hand combat drills, whilst others coached them through strength-sapping fitness tests.

The Ventrillians had a much different approach to the training regimen: the first things they taught their assigned conscripts was how to stand to attention, the proper way to address superior officers, and how to march in perfect lockstep.

As a commissar and as a Mordian, Poole knew which approach he preferred. Discipline was the foundation upon which truly exceptional armies were forged but, as the adage went, there was more than one way to skin a grox. Poole watched as several of the Tallarn troopers ran through their own drills, sprinting from improvised cover to improvised cover, their bodies low and tight, sights trained unerringly on distant targets.

Where firing lines were useless in close and urban terrain, the Tallarn style of combat excelled. Fast, fluid and adaptable – that was the Tallarn way, and one of the reasons its regiments were some of the most highly regarded in the entire Astra Militarum.

Linas Neyru, the Siennite conscript officer, approached holding a data-slate.

‘Are you ready to start today’s interviews, commissar?’

Progress had been slow so far, and Poole had barely made it through a fifth of the conscripts. But Inquisitor Rohm had given him a task, and he would see it through.

‘Yes, let’s make a start.’

Inquisitor Rohm sat in her makeshift office, poring over after-action reports and mission logs from the push on Khamarset. Something about the Dust Devils’ account didn’t feel right to her, and she knew better than to ignore her instincts.

The man in the doorway knocked once and cleared his throat.

‘Lieutenant Linail,’ she greeted the older man, laying down her data-slate and making her way to him. ‘Thank you for coming.’

She guided him into the room, using his clear surprise to steer him to the seat opposite her desk; after all, an Inquisitorial invitation wasn’t something one refused. Rohm made a show of pouring out two generous measures of amasec into a pair of engraved glass tumblers, before passing one to the Ventrillian.

‘To the conquest of Siennon,’ she said, raising her glass in a toast.

‘To the Emperor,’ Linail said enthusiastically.

Rohm barely allowed the liquor to touch her lips, but was happy to see that Linail half drained his glass. She made sure to top it up for him before taking her seat again, pleasantly surprised to see that he waited for her to sit before taking his own. A gentleman of the old breed, this one – with an emphasis on the old, she thought. Between his rheumy eyes and clearly arthritic joints, this veteran had no place on the front lines.

‘I thought I’d invite you for an informal chat,’ Rohm said as warmly as she could. ‘I find that voyages feel all the shorter when one is in friendly company.’

‘I couldn’t agree more, madam inquisitor,’ Linail said kindly.

‘Callida, please,’ Rohm corrected him with a smile. ‘The Inquisition serves the Emperor as you do, lieutenant. We aren’t the spectres in the dark that most citizens believe us to be, especially when we’re off duty.’ She raised her glass in another toast and watched Linail gulp down yet more of the double-strength amasec, too engrossed to notice how cold her smile had become.

She had always found a conversation, flavoured with the subtle arts of psychological manipulation, could yield better results than the torturer’s knife. The easy camaraderie of a shared joke, the warm tone of a friend, and the tongue-loosening effect of a bottle of amasec were all valuable tools in the inquisitor’s arsenal. But, if they should fail, the torturer’s art was still there to fall back on…

‘Thank you, Callida,’ Linail said, blushing slightly at the presumption. ‘This is a wonderful vintage.’

‘Beautifully balanced, isn’t it? Please, help yourself.’ Rohm gestured to the bottle, and Linail sloshed another generous measure into his glass. ‘Tell me about yourself. Have you been in the military for long?’

‘Longer than most!’ Linail chuckled, trying to blink his eyes back into focus. ‘Fifty-six years Terran standard. First campaign was–’

‘And how long under Major Persimmon?’ Rohm interrupted. She knew Linail’s service record better than he did, and wanted to keep the old man on track.

‘Six years as his adjutant.’ Linail seemed to swell with pride as he spoke, puffing out his chest. ‘A rare honour, that.’

‘So you were close to the major?’

‘As close as a man can be to his commanding officer. I cooked for him, cleaned for him, delivered his dispatches and wrote up his after-action reports for command. Of course, back in the day I would have been called his batman–’

‘Interesting,’ Rohm said, cutting off that avenue of conversation before Linail got too into his stride on an irrelevant topic. ‘And how would you say he compares to Major Cross?’

‘Both excellent men,’ Linail said tightly. Rohm raised a playful eyebrow and pretended to take another sip of her drink – a subtle push designed to force the weak-willed to copy the action. Linail barely hesitated before taking another draught, but Rohm still didn’t speak – better to allow the silence to push the conversation forward.

‘Both very different in their own ways, of course,’ Linail continued, acquiescing after a few heartbeats.

‘Indeed?’ Rohm said in mock surprise, reaching out to top up Linail’s glass once more, a subconscious reward for breaking the silence.

‘Major Cross is certainly a breath of fresh air. Speaking candidly, of course.’ Linail spoke with vigour, clearly happy to be able to speak so freely.

‘Of course.’

‘Persimmon was… a typical Ventrillian Noble with a purchased commission. Arrogant. Entitled. Wore his family’s name like a suit of armour,’ Linail continued, the words tumbling out now. ‘He hated Cross. For his lack of breeding. His lack of respect for the Persimmon name. I remember on Naxxiom, he got drunk and called Cross a jumped-up scholam boy with no real pedigree. That was just after Persimmon returned after having his knee replaced… Blamed Cross for that too, but we’d have been dead a hundred times over if it weren’t for Major Cross and Commissar Hirke, Emperor keep him.’

‘They disagreed? Publicly?’ Rohm said in surprise.

‘They would rage at one another! Throne, you could hear them barking at each other like rabid canids over the vox. Persimmon would always have Cross alter or delete the records afterwards, of course.’

‘Alter or delete records?’ Rohm carefully placed down her glass as she spoke. This was the evidence she’d been looking for, a lead she could follow.

‘Oh yes,’ Linail said conspiratorially. ‘He’d always have me relay the order afterwards, said he “couldn’t bear to look the cur in the eye”.’

‘But how would Cross alter records? Where would you even begin?’

‘I have no idea, something he picked up in his time at the Schola Progenium, I believe.’ Linail drained the last of his amasec, and seemed to notice for the first time that Rohm had barely touched hers. She could almost see his mind working furiously – how much had he drunk? How much had he said?

The time for friendly conversation was over. Now, the blunt force of an inquisitor’s interrogation was needed.

‘So you freely admit to helping a superior officer commit a capital offence?’

‘What? No, I…’ Linail stammered, looking from Rohm to his glass and back again.

‘No? You just said it yourself, Persimmon always sent you to Cross with the order.’

‘It’s not like that, you don’t understand, Callida–’

‘Inquisitor Rohm!’ Rohm bellowed and jumped to her feet, slamming her hand down on the table and sending her glass flying off the desk. ‘Make me understand before I find less pleasant ways to sharpen your senses. How did he alter the records?’

‘Something to do with the Shadowsword Heracles and corrupting records,’ Linail blurted quickly. ‘If Persimmon looked bad he always ordered it corrupted or deleted!’

Rohm pulled a data-slate from the pile on her desk, one that contained the vox-logs for the Dust Devils’ command channel the day that Major Persimmon and Commissar Hirke had been killed.

‘Altered like this?’ Rohm asked, pressing the rune that played the audio file. The log was utterly corrupted and nothing but harsh, grating static played from the data-slate’s inbuilt speakers. She’d listened to it already, had run every cleansing engram and fixative rite she knew, but the audio was beyond recovery.

‘Yes! Like that,’ Linail said, looking terrified as Rohm got to her feet. ‘Please, ma’am – Major Persimmon was a poor officer. I’m just trying to say that his loss was no bad thing!’

‘Lieutenant Linail,’ Rohm said evenly, ‘you are the fourth officer I’ve spoken to over the last two days. Each of you has said that Major Persimmon was lost. Did you know that?’

All of the colour drained from Linail’s face as she spoke, his half-blind eyes widening.

‘Commissar Hirke died. The crews of several tanks died. Captain Al-Rahman had an entire squad killed. But you all say that Major Persimmon was lost. And I find that very troubling.’

She left Lieutenant Linail in her office and strode to the bridge, sure that she had found the thread that would lead her to the truth.

The bridge was a hive of activity. Deck crew and ratings bustled across the worn plating, delivering messages and discussing readings at instrument stations whilst Captain Perez stood at the eye of the storm, as if conducting a grand orchestra.

‘Is this a bad time, captain?’ Rohm asked as she approached, pushing past the waiting Naval officers to speak to Perez.

‘Inquisitor Rohm,’ Perez said in greeting, briefly making the sign of the aquila over her heart as she noticed the older woman’s approach. ‘Truthfully? Yes, it is.’

Rohm took in the quiet, restrained fear on the faces of the Naval officers vying for the captain’s attention and realised that it wasn’t simply due to the inquisitor in their midst.

‘What’s going on?’ Rohm asked.

‘Power fluctuations, navigational issues…’ Perez said almost absently, taking a data-slate from the nearest officer and studying it closely. ‘Power loss to deck eleven imminent? No, this will not do.’

Perez stalked away to a nearby cogitator station, her officers following her like baby birds following their mother.

‘Get me Enginseer Haldred now,’ she said to the operator.

The operator clicked expertly at his station’s myriad buttons and switches, but shook his head.

‘I can’t get through to the enginarium decks, ma’am,’ he said apologetically. ‘I’m getting no signal return at all.’

Perez swore under her breath and sent two bridge officers to drag Enginseer Haldred back ‘by the mechadendrites if necessary’, before turning to the inquisitor. ‘I’m sorry for the disruption, madam inquisitor, but issues of this sort are not uncommon in a ship of this age.’

‘I can see that you’re busy. I simply need the loan of a couple of your armsmen for a few hours. And the use of the brig area,’ Rohm said in a low voice.

‘They’re yours,’ Perez said, clicking her fingers at the two armsmen standing at the doors to the bridge.

Each was over six feet of armoured muscle, carrying a short-barrelled shotgun for shipboard actions and wearing a standard Cadian-pattern flak vest. Both strode over to their captain and snapped off quick, precise salutes.

‘Happy hunting, inquisitor.’ Perez made the sign of the aquila once more, before turning back to her work.

Outside the bridge, Rohm and her bodyguards encountered Captain Al-Rahman coming in the opposite direction, accompanied by several of his men. They were all armed, as was the Tallarn way – to be unarmed was to be vulnerable, as their doctrines said.

‘Inquisitor, you sent for me?’ Al-Rahman called out, making the aquila over his heart.

‘I’m afraid I have urgent business,’ Rohm said without breaking her stride. ‘Please await me here.’

Al-Rahman looked confused but obeyed, standing at ease with his entourage. Rohm would speak to him in due course, but right now her concern was Major Cross and finding out exactly how Major Persimmon had been ‘lost’.

‘Your name?’

‘Vrokas, sir.’

Poole looked the conscript up and down, at his pallid skin stretched tight over his skeletal features. The man looked in dire need of several meals and a week’s sleep.

‘And your function on Siennon?’ Poole asked. He already knew the answer, of course – it was on the data-slate in front of him – but the point of the interviews was to root out discrepancies and possible infiltrators. At least, that’s what Rohm had said when she gave him this unenviable task.

‘Labourer, sir. In the packaging plant in district forty-one.’

The day’s training was finished and most of the Tallarn soldiers had already departed for bay one. The conscripts of the Siennite 98th Regiment milled around as the ship prepared for a night cycle, talking in clusters and new unit gangs.

A nearby group of conscripts broke out in raucous laughter, and Vrokas cast them a nervous look.

‘Friends of yours?’ Poole asked, ticking off several fields on his data-slate.

‘No, sir,’ Vrokas said emphatically, his wide eyes almost fearful.

‘Trooper Vrokas, you may return to your unit,’ Poole said, waving the man away. He watched as Vrokas skirted the nearby group of conscripts, heavyset workers wearing the reinforced grey-green overalls typical of fabrication workers on Siennon.

Poole watched the men and women of the group for a moment. Something about their demeanour bothered him, and as they turned he was reminded of the feral pack predators that prowled the lower hives on Mordia’s nightside.

Poole shuddered at the memory, catching the eye of the largest of the waiting group. With a gesture, Poole indicated for the man to approach. Six and a half feet of burly, muscular Siennite strode towards the commissar, a smile broad across his bearded face.

‘Yessir?’ the man grunted, flopping a slovenly salute as he made a parody of standing to attention. Poole couldn’t miss the laughter of the man’s group.

‘Salute me again, trooper,’ Commissar Poole growled, pulling his greatcoat back and revealing the bolt pistol and power sword on either hip. ‘Properly.’

The man barked a foul-smelling cough, wiped his scarred hand over his mouth and stood to full attention. His next salute was crisp and sharp.

‘Better. Name and number, trooper.’

‘Ghaslan Ummit,’ the man said, smiling a gap-toothed grin, ‘SEK99471-118, commissar sir.’

‘Very good, Trooper Ummit,’ Poole said, pulling out his data-slate and scrolling down through his files. Ummit was near the bottom, hidden a long way down in the interview list. It would have taken weeks for Poole to have reached him normally. He looked the trooper up and down, from the reinforced fabrication worker’s overalls barely concealing his burly frame, to the brass torque he wore around his throat.

‘A word of warning, trooper. Failing to show a regimental commissar the proper respect is the quickest route to an early grave.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind, sir,’ Ummit said, still grinning.

The man’s smile was unnerving, his eyes a little too wide and his breathing too heavy. Poole was acutely aware of how many people were watching their exchange; the background hum of conversation was gone, replaced by a palpable sense of anticipation.

‘And your function on Siennon was?’ Poole asked, ignoring the tension rising in the cavernous space.

‘Agriculture, sir.’ Ummit’s smile widened, the smell of rot on his breath almost making Poole gag. ‘Livestock control.’

‘You’re dismissed, Trooper Ummit,’ Poole said. Ummit’s answers had matched his file, but as he turned to leave, patches of interwoven scars revealed themselves across the back of the large man’s neck.

‘Hold,’ Poole heard himself say. ‘Show me your forearms.’ Something deep in the pit of his stomach almost begged him not to speak, but a nagging voice in the back of his mind pushed him on.

Ummit shrugged and pulled up the thick sleeves of his overalls, revealing thick arms corded with muscle and skin utterly ruined by a criss-crossing patchwork of scarred flesh.

‘Must be a dangerous job, livestock control,’ Poole said softly, suddenly aware of how uncomfortably close Ummit was standing.

He hesitated for less than a heartbeat, but a heartbeat was all it took.

Poole reached for his pistol, but Ummit had already swung a rib-cracking punch that connected hard. It knocked the commissar back, gasping for air and clutching at his stomach as it flared with white-hot pain.

The tension in the room erupted into a tidal wave of sound as thousands of throats roared in fury and approval. It was a single word, one that reverberated off the walls as near-incomprehensible noise.

Blood!

Poole found himself on his knees with his hands clutched over his stomach, blood seeping between his fingers. Ummit strode forward, revelling in the moment the way a prize fighter gloated over a beaten opponent, the improvised dagger in his hands dripping gore to the deck plating.

Poole’s instincts screamed for him to get to his feet, to draw his pistol, to put down this insolent wretch. But as the burly conscript advanced, the commissar found he could do nothing but watch the bloodstain blossom across the front of his uniform.

A whipcrack rent the air between them, and Ummit spun to the floor with a scream of pain.

Four Tallarn soldiers were sprinting towards him, firing into the roiling mass of conscripts as they ran.

The next thing he knew, Poole was being dragged from the cargo bay beneath protective fire, the conscripts pouring forth like a raging sea ready to smother everything in its path.

6

The ship shuddered, making Inquisitor Rohm brace herself on the passageway steps.

‘Be ready,’ she said, drawing her snub-nosed plasma pistol. Both armsmen racked the slides of their shotguns in response. They were at an intersection of corridors, with passages leading off towards the cargo, chapel and refectory areas.

‘What was–’ one of them said, but his voice was cut off by a second tremor, much more violent than the first. The lumen-strips in the ceiling flared once and went out, replaced by the scarlet emergency lighting a few moments later.

‘Are we under attack?’ the younger armsman asked, activating the stablight on the end of his weapon.

‘No. Void impacts feel different – that came from the enginarium,’ Rohm said, just as shouting and cries broke out in the direction of the refectory. The sound of more distant panicked voices echoed through the steel corridors of the vessel.

‘Try to raise the bridge,’ Rohm commanded tersely.

‘No response, ma’am,’ the armsman said after several attempts. ‘Should we–’

The rest of his sentence was covered by a sudden boom from the refectory, followed by terrified screams and the crack of lasgun fire.

‘With me!’ Rohm barked, already running in the direction of the gunfire.

They burst into the refectory a few moments later, and into the middle of a pitched battle.

Tables had been upended across the room to use as makeshift barriers, with terrified crewmen cowering behind them. The remnants of discarded food and trays were strewn across the floor, the stink of overboiled food mixing with the sharp smell of blood. Across the room, figures in black overalls grappled with Imperial Navy crewmen.

‘In the name of the Inquisition, you will cease–’ Rohm cried, before an autogun round took her in the shoulder and spun her to the floor. Within seconds, more gunfire erupted from across the refectory, all aimed at the inquisitor and the two armsmen. One of the armsmen dragged the inquisitor into the cover of a fallen table, whilst the other provided covering fire with his shotgun.

‘Are you wounded?’ he shouted over the roar of gunfire.

Rohm gasped in pain and shook her head, running her hand under her armoured greatcoat and sighing with relief as it came away clean.

‘Return fire, damn you!’ she shouted, getting to her knees and chancing a view over the rim of the table.

The gunfire was a feint, she realised, as she could see dark shapes darting between the tables towards them.

‘We need to pull back!’ the nearest armsman roared, firing off several rounds at the approaching figures. With a wet smack, he fell back as if his bones had suddenly turned to gruel.

‘Keep shooting!’ Rohm barked, firing over the side of the table as rounds spanked off the rim like drumbeats. The other armsman didn’t need the encouragement, racking new rounds into his weapon and loosing shots every couple of heartbeats.

Rohm’s attention was wrenched away to the clatter of something light and metal landing nearby. She looked around desperately for the source of the sound, but already knew what it was.

Grenade.

Before she could cry out a warning, her world became darkness, ear-piercing sound and pain.

7

Lights swam in hues of gold, ochre and gleaming silver, creating a breathless kaleidoscope of colour that drifted like smoke in the breeze. Her body was weightless, floating effortlessly through the void, the way she always felt after a rejuvenat treatment. The colours were new though, and somehow unwelcome.

As if sensing her shift in emotions the lights slowed and began escaping through the ether, leaving only harsh light and dull steel behind.

Rohm blinked.

The lumen-strips directly above her were a sickly yellow approximation of sunlight against the dull steel of the ceiling – the kind of cheap, reliable lighting exclusively found on deep-void craft.

She shook her head, trying to shift the opiate fugue that had scattered her senses. Pain clawed at her right side as she tried to sit up, robbing her of her breath but sharpening her senses.

She was alive. But how?

‘Lie down, ma’am,’ a deep voice rumbled nearby, and a steady hand pushed her flat to the bed. ‘You’re in the medicae bay, under my care. I am Medicae Primus Mallus, and you are lucky to be alive.’

Medicae Primus Mallus was a short but stoutly built man, his dark features friendly and his grip firm. Rohm pushed his hand away and rose painfully into a seated position.

‘What is the status of the ship?’ Rohm muttered, finding her voice and poise as the room slowed in its infuriating spinning.

‘The conscripts rose in revolt. They’ve taken the enginarium decks and several groups are roaming the bridge section. That’s all I know and, as you can see, I’ve been quite busy.’

Rohm looked around the room, at the crowded beds and prone forms, the bloodstained floor and the piles of bloody gauze. She could see the armoured forms of multiple armsmen at the medicae doors, watching both the entrance and its occupants.

‘My armsman?’ she asked.

‘He’s guarding the door,’ Mallus winced, clearly uncomfortable with the way Rohm disregarded her injuries. ’He brought you in an hour ago severely wounded, ma’am…’

Rohm ignored him, swinging her legs off the bed and pushing herself to her feet. As she did so, a flare of pain ran up her right arm – enough to make her cry out. Looking down, she saw that her arm and hand were heavily bandaged. She’d been lucky – these injuries were inconvenient, but far from the worst she’d suffered in the last few years.

‘I need my coat. Water. And my weapons,’ she ordered. Mallus sighed, held up his hands in surrender and said he’d be back in a moment.

She let out a deep breath as he walked away, focusing on the pain in her right side. To the disciplined and well-trained mind, pain was nothing more than a tool. It could be used to force the truth from the most depraved heretics, or to focus the minds of the faithful, revealing the path laid down for them by the Emperor. With a few deep breaths she wrestled the grating agony down to a dull, manageable throb, and opened her eyes.

The bed opposite was shielded by translucent plastek drapes, making the occupant within appear hazy and incorporeal. The smell of counterseptics was strong, along with something underneath… The smell of corrupted, burned flesh.

Rohm approached the bed slowly, pulling back the drapes with her good hand. The creature on the bed was barely recognisable as human: a charred slab of ruined meat lay before her, all hair seared away along with any recognisable features. Clear plastek tubing peppered his flesh, and fresh grafts of synthskin covered the worst of his ruined form, the edges blackened where they appeared to have been clawed at to expose the bone. She could even see the surgical-grade alloys of an augmetic knee replacement poking through the stringy ligaments and exposed musculature of its leg.

Her stomach turned in revulsion, but she couldn’t turn away. Something about the prone form seemed familiar, stirring a memory within her…

The thing’s eyes snapped open and locked with hers. The cracked lips parted and he began to whisper, his voice slightly too low for her to hear.

‘What?’ she found herself whispering, moving within reach of the bed. The sheets were stained yellow and black with dried blood and leaking plasma from the synthskin grafts.

‘He cares… not…’ the creature wheezed in a rasping voice.

‘Who are you talking about?’ Rohm asked firmly. ‘Who are you?’

‘HE CARES NOT!’ the man roared, scrabbling for Rohm’s arm with greasy, counterseptic gel-smeared fingers, his grip strong despite his grievous injuries.

‘Step away please, inquisitor,’ came Mallus’ voice from behind her. He firmly but carefully removed the burned man’s hands from her sleeve and pressed a button on the wall above the bed. With a hiss of gas-powered pumps, sickly-tinted sedatives ran down tubes embedded in the man’s flesh, and his thrashing slowed.

‘His wounds,’ she said as Mallus led her back to her own bed, ‘they are not fresh. He wasn’t injured in the revolt.’

‘He was transferred from a medical facility on Siennon,’ Mallus explained calmly, handing the inquisitor her coat and a sealed flask of water. She donned the coat carefully, pulling a stimm capsule from one of the hidden pockets sewn into the lining. Once she’d downed the water and the stimm, she motioned for Mallus to continue.

‘Plasma burns. By all measures he should be dead, of infection, systemic shock, a thousand other injuries.’ Mallus sighed.

‘Who is he?’ Rohm asked, finding her plasma pistol back in its holster and her Inquisitorial rosette still sewn into the front of the reinforced greatcoat.

‘We don’t know, and I’m not sure we ever will. His mind is broken,’ Mallus explained. ‘His accent is Ventrillian, and I’m guessing he’s an officer judging by the knee augmetic. It’s an expensive one that you never see in your standard trooper, a–’

‘Styges-III-pattern knee joint replacement,’ she breathed, finishing his sentence for him.

‘How could you know that?’ Mallus asked in surprise.

‘Because that man is Major Persimmon,’ Rohm said, ‘and I need to get to the bridge. Now.’

Rohm’s journey to the bridge wasn’t without incident.

She took her armsman with her from the medicae bay. Even with her stimms she still wasn’t back to fighting strength, and in any case he knew the ship better than she did. The emergency lighting was disorienting, and more than once they had to duck out of the way of squads of armsmen racing to engage the rampaging conscripts.

When they reached the bridge, they found the security doors locked and Al-Rahman and his entourage manning the temporary barricade outside. They bellowed a challenge as soon as they spotted Rohm.

‘Who goes there?’ Al-Rahman shouted, the squad’s stablights blinding in their intensity.

‘Inquisitor Rohm and escort!’ Rohm shouted back. ‘Who holds the bridge, Captain Al-Rahman?’ There was a moment’s pause.

‘We do,’ Al-Rahman called back.

‘And who exactly are “we”, captain? Are you loyal to the Imperium or are you part of this uprising?’

‘We are loyal to the Emperor,’ Al-Rahman shouted emphatically. ‘Now please, inquisitor, approach the barricade before we come under attack again!’

Rohm moved out of cover with exaggerated slowness, waiting for the lasgun shot that never came.

She and her armsman had to pick their way carefully over previously unseen forms, prone and lifeless in the dark. They wore the same overalls as the men she’d faced in the refectory, Rohm realised, the cloth smeared with a shiny black substance. She stooped down and touched it, and with a sniff of her coated fingers realised that it was fresh blood, appearing black in the emergency lighting.

Al-Rahman hefted one of the barricade plates aside to allow them past, barking orders for his men to replace it quickly.

‘Inquisitor Rohm outside, captain,’ he said into a handheld vox-set, and the doors to the bridge grumbled open. Layer upon layer of interleaved plasteel and ceramite plates drew back, revealing the fully lit and combat-ready bridge. Al-Rahman followed Rohm inside, past the waiting squads of armsmen either side of the entryway, as the doors closed behind them.

‘What is our status?’ Rohm asked Captain Perez, ignoring the other woman’s hasty sign of the aquila.

‘Becalmed,’ Perez sighed, indicating a nearby cogitator station. ‘We’ve lost propulsion and main power, which are functions controlled by the enginarium. We’ve also lost comms and the shipwide vox. We can’t call for help, nor can we raise anyone beyond this deck.’

‘Is it the Ventrillians?’ Rohm asked.

‘No,’ Al-Rahman said confidently. ‘Major Cross would never–’

‘I’m questioning exactly what Major Cross would do at this moment, Captain Al-Rahman,’ Rohm murmured, cutting him off with a glance. ‘And do not think that you yourself are free from suspicion.’

‘We believe that Major Cross is with us. We’ve received reports of heavy fighting in the barrack decks and the entrance to bay one, where the Ventrillian tanks are secured,’ Captain Perez said, looking between the inquisitor and the Tallarn officer. ‘Captain Al-Rahman and his men defended the bridge until my armsmen could reach us. They are the only reason we still have control of the ship, inquisitor.’

Rohm thought back to the bodies in the hallway outside the bridge. There had been dozens of them, more than enough to take the bridge if it hadn’t been so well defended.

‘And where is the commissar?’ Rohm asked, looking around the room for the Mordian.

‘The last time I saw him he was down in Bay Four, interviewing the conscripts,’ Al-Rahman explained. ‘Though I think it’s long past time we started calling them what they are. Cultists.’

‘Cultists,’ Perez breathed. ‘They brought cultists aboard my ship?’

‘I believe so, yes. It could be some of the conscripts were corrupted or it could be all of them,’ Al-Rahman said.

‘I only have three hundred armsmen. My crew–’

‘Enough. This is conjecture and assumption,’ Rohm interrupted, still aware of Al-Rahman’s attention on her.

‘No. I know these Scions of Carnage,’ Al-Rahman argued. ‘We’ve fought them for over a year, inquisitor. I can prove it.’

‘Prove it? How?’ Rohm asked.

‘Remember I said that the Scions are a blood cult?’ Al-Rahman asked. ‘And once they ran out of innocents to murder and skulls to claim, they found other ways to make blood tribute? They bled themselves, inquisitor. I saw it. I burned their shrines myself.’

He barked an order into his vox handset and after a few moments, a Tallarn duf’adar walked through the opening security doors, dragging a dead body behind her. She exchanged a few words with Al-Rahman before leaving again through the closing security doors.

Al-Rahman pulled off the corpse’s improvised armour plates and bloody clothing, while Captain Perez whispered a quiet prayer to the Emperor. Finally, when the body’s bare flesh was revealed, Rohm cursed loudly. The corpse was skeletally thin, its pale flesh utterly ruined by an intersecting patchwork of scars.

These were ritual bloodletting scars, and she knew that if they were to strip the body naked, there wouldn’t be a square inch of flesh that was free of them. On the chest there was even a faded and sectioned tattoo, signifying that this corpse had once belonged to the Siennon planetary defence forces.

‘Do you see now, inquisitor?’ Al-Rahman asked as he straightened up once more.

‘I do, captain. And the Inquisition will hunt down those incompetents responsible for allowing these vermin aboard this ship, I swear it. But in order for that to happen, we must retake The Emperor’s Light.’ Rohm spoke with an even, calm voice despite the chaos of the situation. ‘The Siennite Ninety-Eighth are hereby excommunicatus and must be destroyed with all prejudice.’

It took the three less than ten minutes to devise a working plan. Standing around a holotable at the rear of the bridge, they worked together to find solutions to the most pressing problems, even as the sound of weapons fire rang from the bridge doors.

‘We need to re-establish communications with the rest of the Dust Devils. Once we link up, we should be able to clear the bridge section and retake the enginarium,’ Perez said, jabbing her finger at key points on the 3D holo-projection of the ship.

‘In the confines of the ship, their numbers will count against them,’ Al-Rahman agreed. ‘The problem will be when we enter the spine of the ship. It’s a wide, open space, ideal for a mass charge. My question is, what are they after? The Emperor’s Light is a fine ship, but it’s hardly going to help retake the system.’

Perez looked at Rohm nervously. ‘What?’ Al-Rahman asked.

‘They are here for you,’ Rohm said, as the final pieces of the puzzle slotted into place in her mind. ‘Or more accurately, the Ventrillian tanks. It’s the Trajan Equus.’

Both Al-Rahman and Perez looked at her blankly.

‘An ancient Terran legend. Pirates attacked a great walled city, but couldn’t breach its gates. They seemingly admitted defeat, leaving a great sculpture of the equus to honour the victorious city. Only once the defenders brought the sculpture inside the walls, they realised that it was full of pirates, who destroyed the city in an orgy of blood.’

‘They will use my ship to take Hub-Fortress Cerberus?’ Perez asked in shock.

‘They will use The Emperor’s Light to gain access, and the Dust Devils’ tanks to take the hub-fortress. Without armour, the fortress defences would cut them down in moments. With Leman Russ tanks, Chimeras and a Shadowsword…’

‘With the tanks they can take the fortress. With the fortress, they can retake the system.’ Al-Rahman cursed.

8

‘Still nothing, sir.’

The voice boomed in his ear, the vox-speaker turned up to maximum volume as Major Cross ducked behind the improvised barrier. Shots and thrown projectiles hammered off the floor plating he was using as improvised cover, torn up from the deck when the uprising began.

‘Keep trying!’ he shouted into the headset, popping up from behind cover to fire off a few shots with his laspistol.

Most of the Dust Devils had been gathered in bay one when the uprising began. They’d completed the cycle’s training with the conscripts, only realising that they were under attack when the lights failed and the screaming started.

A couple of hundred of the conscripts had made it past them to the bridge section of the ship before the melee had started, a brutal hand-to-hand brawl in the semi-darkness cast by the emergency lighting. The cultists had broken when a mixed Tallarn and Ventrillian firing line had been hastily assembled, pushing them back down the main thoroughfare towards Bay Four.

The Dust Devils had jumped into action, creating an improvised barricade across the width of the central thoroughfare, consisting of loose deck plates, heavy crates and the Leman Russ Punisher Holy Storm. It was more a visual than real threat now though, as Holy Storm’s Punisher cannon was running dangerously low on ammunition. Its main function was to try to raise anyone over the vox, but so far they had been unsuccessful.

The uprising had started hours before, and now the Dust Devils were pinned; they couldn’t advance into the gloom towards the aft section of the ship, and they’d been met with fierce resistance when Cross had sent men scouting towards the bridge.

Sounds of distant combat echoed from the bridge section, and Cross ran, stooped, to the other side of the barricade.

‘Chins up, gents,’ he shouted down the line at the mixed Tallarn Desert Raiders and Ventrillian tankers. ‘Conserve ammunition. Kill shots only.’

The sounds grew closer and closer, and suddenly there were flashes of light and the telltale snap of las-fire and booms of solid-shot firearms.

‘Make ready!’ Cross shouted down the line.

‘Fear not because the Emperor is with you!’ Poole shouted from the far end of the barricade. For a man who looked on the verge of death when he’d been dragged to safety by a few Tallarn soldiers, the wounded commissar had so far been a valuable asset.

Figures loomed out of the dark, daubed in black and carrying improvised weapons.

‘Open fire!’ Cross bellowed, and a rippling volley of las-fire ripped into the advancing cultists, slowing their charge. ‘Keep firing!’

Cultists were flowing freely from the bridge section of the ship, but weren’t braying their usual battle cries – it was as if they were running away from something, rather than charging.

‘Sir! Enemy advancing from the enginarium!’ the vox boomed. Cross spat a curse. He didn’t have the men to defend both flanks at once.

‘Fix bayonets!’ he roared, drawing his own weapon.

Within moments, the rhythmic staccato of disciplined las-fire was interrupted by the chaos of close combat. Holy Storm’s Punisher cannon buzzed, mowing down cultists by the dozen, whilst Cross and his men desperately tried to repel the Siennites.

A cultist screamed a wordless challenge, vaulting the barricade and brandishing an improvised spear. He swatted aside the nearest Ventrillian, but fell beneath the bayonet charge of two other Dust Devils.

‘On your feet, soldier!’ Cross shouted over the furore, dragging the downed Ventrillian back to his feet.

‘Incoming, bridge side!’ someone shouted. Cross parried a blow from an incoming sledgehammer and shot its wielder twice at point-blank range, ignoring the acrid odour of burnt hair and flesh. God-Emperor, how could there still be more of them?

At that moment he was pitched to his face on the deck, caught beneath the dead weight of a fallen Ventrillian. He scrambled to get free, to defend himself, but there was too much weight and the floor plates were slick with blood. His men were going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it, he realised. His end would come on a shoddy transport in a forgotten sector.

Nearby, the las-fire redoubled as if they suddenly had twice the number of guns, and a cheer went up the line, mixed with cries of ‘Fall back!’ in Siennite accents. The weight on his back lifted, and Cross looked up to see a familiar hand reaching out to help him.

‘Ku’fiya!’ Al-Rahman laughed, grasping Cross’ hand and pulling him to his feet.

More Tallarn soldiers and a handful of armsmen were visible up and down the line, handing out fresh charge packs and putting down the last of the wounded cultists.

‘Thank the God-Emperor,’ Cross sighed, picking up his fallen sword and pistol.

‘Are your tanks secure?’ Rohm asked, appearing from behind Al-Rahman.

‘Secure? Yes, ma’am,’ Cross replied, nodding his thanks to his second-in command.

‘Contact aft!’ the vox blared, and men leaped to the barricade and took aim.

‘Open fire!’ Cross roared, firing his pistol into the oncoming horde of blood-smeared figures. There were so many that he barely needed to aim.

‘Kill shots only! Conserve your ammunition!’ Cross bellowed over the uproar, cut off by the buzzing screech of the Punisher cannon spitting blazing death.

This continued for heartbeat after chest-trembling heartbeat, until the charge broke once more and the enemy retreated, leaving their dead and wounded on the blood-smeared deck.

‘Tell me that you have a plan,’ Cross groaned hoarsely.

9

Back in bay one, behind the second barricade, Cross’ face showed his fatigue as Al-Rahman and the inquisitor explained what they knew so far, and the plan they had concocted with Captain Perez.

‘I can take my men and clear the bridge section in a couple of hours,’ Al-Rahman said, looking from Cross to Rohm to Poole. ‘That frees up the armsmen and gives us a fighting chance of retaking the enginarium decks. We’ve brought vox equipment, so you’ll have contact with my teams and the bridge.’

‘The Emperor’s Light locked all other entrances to the bridge section the moment power failed,’ Rohm added. ‘The main thoroughfare is the only access point still open to them.’

‘Which is why they’re so desperate to get past us,’ Poole said.

‘Exactly, it’s their only way to the bridge without heavy cutting gear or a Leman Russ. They’re trained and determined, but autoguns and improvised close-combat weapons won’t get them through those doors,’ Al-Rahman explained.

‘A sound plan, but for one thing,’ Cross said with a sigh. ‘I’m not sure that we can hold them for that long. We’re running dangerously low on ammunition, and we can’t risk using the Leman Russ’ battle cannons. Not inside a void-craft.’

‘What about the heavy bolters?’ Al-Rahman asked, pointing to a nearby sponson.

‘We moved all of the bolter ammo to Holy Storm when we lodged it in the barricade,’ Cross replied with a shake of his head. ‘It ran out in the first hour. Short of driving them into the enemy, the tanks are useless to us.’

‘This is our only option. You must hold,’ Rohm said in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘We cannot move on the enginarium without ensuring the safety of the bridge section. Captain Al-Rahman, prepare your men.’

Al-Rahman made the sign of the aquila and ran back towards the barricade, and Rohm gestured for Poole to follow the Tallarn captain. He looked questioningly at the inquisitor before moving away, albeit at a much slower pace than Al-Rahman. Cross made to leave too, but Rohm held him back.

‘A moment, major,’ Rohm said, glaring at the Ventrillian. ‘I need you to provide some answers.’

The inside of the Shadowsword Heracles stank of stale sweat, old caffeine and cold metal.

Cross led her through the impossibly tight interior to a slightly raised dais in the very centre of the tank. The way that he gently stroked the handrails and murmured softly put Rohm in mind of the way a cavalryman would calm a skittish mount.

‘Her machine-spirit is volatile,’ Cross explained, ‘and not used to outsiders.’

‘She will abide me,’ Rohm replied, taking in the unfathomable controls, cogitator screens and endless data-spools. All this equipment, in addition to the attention of several experienced and diligent crew, were required to man Heracles and fire its volcano cannon, a Titan-killing armament of fearsome reputation.

Cross took his seat in the command throne at the centre of the dais and began manipulating a cogitator screen.

‘You promised me answers, major,’ Rohm said coldly, her plasma pistol drawn.

‘Everything is here, like I said,’ Cross replied.

‘Your action reports listed Persimmon as lost. Why?’ Rohm asked.

‘Because that’s exactly what happened. We lost him.’

The speakers mounted into the walls began to blare with noise, the rumbling of the engine muffling all other sound. Rohm realised that when the tank was actually in motion, that noise must be all-consuming.

‘This is the audio log from the push on Khamarset, the original. We were spread across a front nearly six miles wide. Persimmon’s ridiculous orders left us without infantry support but, instead of regrouping, he decided to scout ahead in his Leman Russ,’ Cross explained. The noise on the speakers continued, until a voice sprang forth out of the noise, one that Rohm recognised.

‘HE CARES NOT! HE CARES NOT FROM WHENCE IT FLOWS!’ Persimmon screamed.

‘Persimmon? Where are you?’ a voice barked, the accent tight and clipped.

‘Commissar Hirke,’ Cross said.

‘Ahead, commissar! I have him on auspex, he’s in the… What is that?’ Cross’ voice came through the speakers. Next came shouted commands, targeting orders and the roar of gunfire, with Persimmon’s screamed mantra beneath it all.

‘He’d advanced into a mist bank on the foothills outside Khamarset,’ Cross said, looking directly at Rohm with haunted eyes. ‘But this mist glowed, inquisitor. It glowed red.’

‘Stay back, Cross, I have Persimmon’s location. I’m heading in…’ Hirke’s voice commanded. ‘By the Emperor, what is that thing…? Cross, fire on these coordinates now, damn you, now!’

A scream rent the air, too loud to come from human lungs and filled with an impossible rage. It was cut off when thunder blared from the speakers, only deeper and somehow reverberating through her as if it came from her stomach.

‘Hirke’s plasma cannon overloaded,’ Cross said in a defeated voice. ‘Just as we fired at the coordinates he supplied. Killed what it hit and took that bloody red mist with it.’

‘Did you see what it was?’ Rohm breathed, moving closer to the major. When Cross didn’t speak, she pressed on. ‘I asked if you saw it, major.’

Cross moved slowly, turning his monitor around to show the inquisitor.

The screen showed a grainy, low-quality pict-capture covered in static. No, not static, but the fog that Cross had described. Just behind the veil of mist there was a silhouette, larger than a Mechanicus Knight, winged, and roaring its fury into the sky…

She’d never seen one before, not in pict-capture or in person. Few had, and fewer still had lived to tell the tale. She looked from the image to Cross. He knew that this image had killed him.

‘None of my men know,’ he said softly. ‘I’m the only one who saw it, I swear. I’m the only one with access to the forward pict-captures.’ Cross shuddered, as if suddenly cold. ‘When we pulled alongside there was nothing there, inquisitor. No trace of it at all.’

‘There wouldn’t be,’ Rohm said, reaching out and deleting the pict. ‘How do I know that this is a true account? Linail told me that you are quite adept at altering records.’

‘Linail?’ Cross sighed. ‘That old fool. I can delete or corrupt vox-records, inquisitor. Persimmon had me do it more than once, but alter them? No, I’m no tech-adept.’

‘And Persimmon? Why rescue him?’ Rohm asked.

‘He was a shit commanding officer, but he’s a Ventrillian. I couldn’t let him rot on a forsaken backwater like Siennon. I found him that night, got him to an aid station as an anonymous casualty.’

‘Who else knows about what you have shown me? About Persimmon, or the screaming creature in the mist?’

‘No one knows about Persimmon, I acted alone in that,’ Cross said, letting out a long, slow breath. ‘Captain Al-Rahman was on the command channel when we lost Persimmon, but he was a mile away. There’s no way he saw anything.’

‘I see,’ Rohm said apologetically, priming her plasma pistol. ‘You must know that I cannot allow this information to pass any further.’

‘Wait, please – just wait,’ Cross almost shouted, raising his hands. ‘I won’t ask for mercy. I know better than that, with all due respect. But please, let me save my men and I will gladly submit to your judgement. By the Emperor, I swear it.’

Rohm’s pistol felt suddenly heavy in her hand. It was her duty to kill him, in spite of the fact he was a good man and one of the few reasons that The Emperor’s Light hadn’t already fallen. They both knew it, and yet she hesitated.

Rohm’s heart thundered as the moment stretched out between them, Cross with his hands still raised, her own arm throbbing with returning pain, until she deactivated and holstered her pistol.

‘I will hold you to that promise, major. If we survive.’

10

Al-Rahman’s gaze fell on the body of a large man, his dark eyes frozen forever in a shocked expression. A shame, he thought; the man had kind eyes.

The medicae deck had been overrun some time before, that much was clear. It was one of the few places on the ship with its own power source, and so was well lit. Al-Rahman wished it wasn’t.

The once crisp white walls were smeared with blood and worse. Prone forms were scattered around the room, most with their heads removed, all killed as bloodily as possible.

‘Anything?’ he called out to the men ahead of him. They were investigating a pile of plastek sheeting that had been torn from the ceiling, set around an empty bed stained with plasma and dried blood.

‘Nothing, sir,’ one called back.

‘Deck eighteen clear, moving to nineteen.’

Cross sat with his back to the barricade, listening to the updates over the vox. Only a handful of decks remained to be cleared by the Tallarn contingent of the Dust Devils, but Cross already knew that it wasn’t enough.

He looked down at the wound in his gut, at the blood seeping between his fingers. The cultist who’d dealt him the blow had died a split second later as Poole’s bolt-round had torn him apart. Cross knew that the wound wouldn’t kill him. They didn’t have enough time left for that to happen. Poole stood a few yards away, leading the surviving Ventrillians in bellowed prayer, as if in direct conflict to the now ever-present cries of the cultists, away in the dark.

‘I will destroy those who seek to destroy me!’ Poole cried, and the Ventrillians chorused it in return. ‘I fear no evil, I fear no death, for the Emperor comes for me!’

Cross listened to his men roar the words back at the commissar, a challenge to those hidden by the dark. His heart swelled with pride as they chanted the words.

They were all but out of ammunition now, scarcely an hour since Al-Rahman had led his Tallarn contingent to retake the bridge section and Rohm had departed for the bridge. Looking around, he counted less than ten full tank crews still able to fight. Twice that number were dead across the barricades, amongst the cultists who hadn’t survived the most recent charge.

With bloody fingers, he reached for the vox-receiver.

‘Inquisitor Rohm?’

Rohm stood on the bridge, watching the holo-projection of The Emperor’s Light as deck by deck the bridge section turned green, showing that they’d been cleared.

‘Go ahead,’ she said. Perez was standing opposite her across the table, her skin a pallid grey-green in the flickering light of the holotable.

‘I think you might need to revise that plan, inquisitor,’ Cross said, his voice thin even over the vox.

‘Cross? What’s going on?’

‘We won’t last another charge, inquisitor. My men are spent and we’re down to our last few shots.’

‘Can you pull back to the bridge entrance?’ Perez asked.

‘It won’t make a difference. There are too many of them. Far too many,’ Cross groaned. He was injured, Rohm realised.

‘Do you have another suggestion, major?’ Rohm asked.

With the Ventrillians gone and ammunition running low, they were almost out of options for dealing with the hundreds, if not thousands of remaining cultists.

‘Seal the bridge off. Completely,’ Cross said. ‘Can you do that?’

‘We can close the main bulkhead manually, yes,’ Perez replied.

‘And what about the main bulkhead to the enginarium? Is it open?’

‘It’s locked down, and we can’t open it without power,’ Perez said with a shake of her head. ‘But the bulkheads within are already open.’

She pointed at several dots of light around the enginarium section, which Rohm understood to mean that they stood open. Rohm knew what Cross intended.

‘God-Emperor be with you, Major Cross,’ she said, as Perez looked on in dismay.

Back on the thoroughfare deck, Cross threw down the vox-set and called out to Commissar Poole.

‘Listen carefully, commissar,’ Cross grunted, pulling himself up to his feet with effort. ‘There’s a new plan.’

11

Commissar Poole looked on as the last few Ventrillians died on the barricade.

Sheltered in the shadow of the main bridge bulkhead, he could just about pick out the figures fighting hopelessly to hold back the surging horde.

‘Quickly now, lads,’ he said curtly. ‘Let’s not have it all be for nothing.’

Together with several armsmen, five Ventrillians were manually working the hydraulic pumps to close the security doors and seal the bridge off from the rest of the ship. The few Tallarn soldiers who had been on the barricade were already making their way to rendezvous with Captain Al-Rahman.

Major Cross was back in bay one with the remaining crew of Heracles, where the throaty growl of firing engines could just be heard over the whipcrack of gunfire.

As the interleaving panels of steel and ceramite inched closed, the last thing Poole saw was the silhouette of a massive figure standing triumphantly on the barricade, roaring in triumph.

‘Ahead twenty yards,’ Cross ordered from his command throne aboard Heracles.

He switched his vid-screens to a night-vision setting, the sudden glare of inverted greyish light almost blinding as the details of the deck became clear.

‘Contact ahead. Don’t stop,’ Cross said, seeing the cultists whoop and leap as they finally gained entrance to bay one and the treasure of his regiment’s tanks. Thumps and cracks echoed through the hull as they jumped on top of Heracles, beating on the hatches with improvised weapons and shooting pointlessly at its inches-thick armour plating.

‘Ignore it, boys and girls,’ Cross said as reassuringly as he could. ‘Passing into the thoroughfare now. Ninety-degree right turn.’

He shifted in his seat as the tank lurched around, the suspension springs beneath his throne squealing softly.

‘Easy girl, easy.’ He reached around and patted the grab-bar over his head. The view in front of him turned his stomach: cultists as far as the eye could see, thousands of them, surging forward like a swarm of world-destroying locusts.

‘Target locked. Are you sealed and secure, Captain Perez?’

‘Secured. God-Emperor be with you,’ Perez’s voice crackled through the vox-speakers.

‘Fire!’

To the cultists outside Heracles, it seemed as if they were suddenly struck with a million bolts of lightning, falling about in spasms as the volcano cannon discharged a blaze of light hotter than the core of a dwarf star.

The bulkhead that sealed the enginarium flared white hot and exploded with enough force to rock Heracles on its axles. A rush of air and smoke-choked atmosphere billowed down the thoroughfare like the exhalation of a great dragon of ancient Terran myth.

Above him, Cross was aware that the hammering on the roof hatches had become more urgent as the cultists grew even more desperate.

‘Ninety degrees right!’ he ordered, the tank skidding and sliding as it ground the enemy to corrupted paste beneath its adamantium tracks.

‘Eighty seconds to recharge!’ the gunner yelled over the engine’s roar.

‘Get us moving, Fawkes!’ Cross all but yelled at his driver.

‘Not exactly ideal terrain, sir!’ Fawkes howled back.

‘Just get us pointed at that damned hatch!’

Heracles rocked as it ground its way forward, back into bay one and towards the great doors that held out the void. Above him, a screech of metal announced that one of the cultists had finally gained purchase on the hatch seal and was desperately trying to claw their way inside.

‘Twenty seconds!’ the gunner shouted.

Cross drew his pistol and aimed it at the hatch.

‘It’s been an honour and a pleasure,’ Cross said to his crew, as he blasted the face off the first cultist to force his way inside.

A few heartbeats later the volcano cannon fired once more. Major Rikkard Cross knew nothing but the deafening roar of the void as he was torn from his tank, through bay one and out into the embrace of the stars.

12

Bilal Al-Rahman sat on the floor of his room, his eyes closed against the flickering lumen set into the ceiling. These new billets weren’t as good as he’d had aboard The Emperor’s Light, but he wasn’t in a mind to complain.

It had taken more than a week for The Emperor’s Light to be reported missing, and a further week for it to be located in the void between Siennon and Hub-Fortress Cerberus. For two weeks they had floated through the dark alone, adrift, and running perilously low on supplies.

Four-fifths of the crew had been butchered by the cultists before they were stopped, in addition to forty-two Tallarn Desert Raiders and all but six Ventrillians. The Dust Devils were finished as an effective fighting force.

Al-Rahman probed the new gaps in his gums with his tongue. God-Emperor, the teeth pulling had been the worst part of it. He’d actually screamed then, as the interrogators repeated the same questions over and over. What did you see? What did you hear?

That had come after the rescue, when they were safely ensconced in Hub-Fortress Cerberus: a gigantic black growth on the surface of the fourth world of the Nappolis System.

‘Captain Al-Rahman, did you hear me?’ a kindly voice asked.

He looked around to the blind spot to his right, since his right eye was swollen shut. Inquisitor Rohm stood there, flanked by Commissar Poole and the long-faced man who kept asking the questions.

‘I didn’t see anything,’ he whispered as soon as he saw the man. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’ To his shame, his vision blurred with sudden tears.

‘We know, captain,’ Rohm said, dismissing the long-faced man. He left without a word, gliding from the room without a backward glance. ‘But what you heard over the command channel on Siennon cannot be allowed to spread.’ Inquisitor Rohm spoke with the calming tone of someone who has explained something more than once.

‘We are here to offer you a choice, captain. Continued service as a servitor here on Cerberus. Or the Emperor’s Peace.’

‘It’s not much of a choice, is it?’ Al-Rahman said, wiping the tears from his good eye with a blood-crusted hand. He noticed, as if for the first time, that all of his fingernails were missing.

‘I think I’ve earned my peace,’ he said, pulling himself to his feet with difficulty.

‘Very well. Thank you for your service, Captain Al-Rahman,’ Rohm said, and nodded to Poole.

‘It was an honour,’ Al-Rahman breathed.

Poole drew his bolt pistol and chambered a round.

As they left the room and the clean-up team to their work, Rohm stopped Commissar Poole and looked him in the eye.

‘Do you understand our course of action, commissar?’ she asked.

‘I believe so, ma’am. His knowledge damned him.’

‘Not quite. There is a bigger picture,’ Rohm sighed with a disappointed shake of her head. ‘All it would have taken is for Al-Rahman to tell one other person. That information spreads from one soldier to the next like a plague, until suddenly the greatest assembly of fighting men that this galaxy has ever seen is asking for answers it could never comprehend.’

Poole listened intently, understanding dawning across his features.

‘But through his suffering we know that the threat died with him. The surviving Dust Devils can continue back to the fleet, to all of those millions of other soldiers, and continue to wage this crusade. They will be used in the next battle, and the next after that, and the next after that, on and on until they are spent or there are no enemies left to fight. The Primarch Reborn can use them to bathe the stars with the fires of retribution. To push the enemy back into the abyss.’

‘But why tell me? Am I not a danger too?’ Poole asked.

‘You saw the threat and how it must be managed,’ Rohm replied, looking down at the bolt pistol on Poole’s hip. ‘So when you are absorbed into the Tallarn Eight Hundred and Eighty-First alongside the remainder of Al-Rahman’s men, you will know what to look for. And what to do if it is found.’

A muffled scream burst from the nearest cell, followed by the hum-crack of electrical discharge. Poole jumped at the sound, but Rohm barely reacted.

‘Linas Neyru,’ she explained offhandedly, moving to the cell door to look through an observation hatch.

‘The conscripted Siennite officer? I’m surprised he survived.’

‘So was I,’ Rohm agreed, ‘until a search of his quarters uncovered correspondence with a number of high-ranking Administratum officials, who I will be speaking with in due course.’

Poole looked at her quizzically, keeping his eyes resolutely away from the cell door.

‘Haven’t you wondered how some three thousand cultists found their way onto The Emperor’s Light?’ Rohm asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘That bastard?’ Poole seethed.

‘A small player in a larger web of corruption and bribery,’ Rohm said, closing the observation hatch. ‘One that I will bring down.’

‘The bigger picture,’ Poole said with a nod. He stood to attention and made the sign of the aquila over his heart. ‘My thanks, madam inquisitor. For the lesson, and for the orders.’

Rohm extended her hand, which Poole grasped firmly.

‘May the God-Emperor protect and keep you, Commissar Poole,’ she said, before opening the door to Neyru’s cell and disappearing inside.

EPILOGUE

Ghaslan Ummit limped through the dark underbelly of The Emperor’s Light, dragging the servitor in his wake. The las-wound in his shoulder ached and he had to stop regularly, wincing as the ruined muscles and torn flesh rubbed against the rough fibres of his overalls.

The servitor he was dragging mewled wetly, its jaw hanging loose.

It wasn’t like the hunts on the home world, Ummit thought darkly. When they had chased the devotees of the Corpse-Emperor through the streets, those still loyal to an Imperium that had forgotten them.

‘Shut up,’ he grunted at the stunted half-thing.

It had been hard to survive on the ship once the mad bastards had blown the atmosphere out of the cargo and enginarium sections. But Ummit and three of his followers had already secreted themselves away in the bridge section and were saved… At least at first. Once they’d run out of food their numbers had dwindled. After all, only the strong deserved to live.

He looked down at the servitor, at its pallid skin and emaciated frame. It wouldn’t make for good eating, but it would do. And the skull would grow the pile that he was curating, deep in the bowels of the ship.

A hiss behind him made him spin, drawing his improvised shank.

‘Who’s there?’ he grunted, peering into the darkness between steaming pipes and loose conduits.

‘That one is unworthy,’ a voice echoed through the gloom. Ummit had heard that accent before. A Ventrillian.

‘What? Come out and fight me, coward!’ Ummit growled, his blood up now and the old strength returning to his limbs.

‘I said,’ a voice hissed in his ear as a ruined, blistered hand grabbed him by the throat from behind, ‘that one is unworthy.’

Ummit tried to twist free but the ruined creature bit deep into his neck, tearing a bloody hunk from his throat. He flopped to his knees, the improvised knife clattering to the floor at his side as he tried to staunch the flow of blood.

He looked on in horror as a nightmare creature stepped into his field of view: a burned figure, its skin blackened and cracked by unholy fire, its white trousers stained red, yellow and black with its own blood and filth.

‘He cares not from whence it flows,’ it said, dropping to its haunches and plucking the knife from the floor. ‘Only that it does.’

Before Ummit could cry out, the burned creature slashed open his throat and sighed with pleasure as it was covered in Ummit’s arterial spray. Once the large Siennite was dead it knelt at the corpse’s side, pondering the knife, and how best to retrieve the skull.

OUTPOST

Tom Toner

At the far fringes of Imperial space lie the Ghoul Stars. Cold, strange and uninviting, only an unlucky handful of souls watch over the forbidding cluster of worlds whose inhabitants were vanquished by the Black Templars centuries ago. Horrific things still linger upon these darkened planets, however, and in this report my lord will learn of Inquisitor Vaine Aldredict’s efforts (along with those of the Death Spectres Chapter of Adeptus Astartes) to purge one such world of foul xenos breeds such as the deadly cythor fiends. A warning: this tale is harrowing and haunting in the extreme, even to a hardened mind such as your own, and I would recommend that you steel yourself before reading, my lord.

The Vanguard light cruiser Swift as the Blade broke away from its battlegroup at Stygia, descending over the course of three watchful weeks through a volume of inky gloom, all communications with the main fleet ceasing. Upon sighting the glow of Ridhol it altered its course, curving in a stately arc back up into the darkness and leaving the smaller Gladius frigate Luminous Fury to its solitary onward journey.

The Luminous Fury plotted its own looping course, rolling with the plane of the galaxy and soaring deeper into the thicket of dazzling, uncharted starfields below, its frontal lance primed, stores equipped for a round trip of many months. If all went well, it would not sight the Swift as the Blade again for one hundred and seventeen days, and it might be a full year before it returned to the safety of Battlefleet Ultima, stationed out of Kar Duniash. Out here on the Imperial frontier, warp storms pummelled the volume like a windswept range, dashing ships far off course, and unknown intelligences flitted in the darkness between the stars. This wild, benighted void was the jurisdiction of the Death Spectres, charged with keeping watch over the fringe of the galaxy known as the Ghoul Stars.

The Luminous Fury slowed at last, the blizzard of stars drifting gently into a settled position around it as it homed in on a single, brighter point of rose-gold light. The star was called Helbrecht, after the High Marshal who had claimed it for the Emperor, and lay inside a drift of unknown systems. This was unequivocally the most dangerous point in the entire journey, but the Gladius frigate dropped its single Aquila lander directly into the system without alarm.

The small craft fell away from the brightness of the Luminous Fury’s hangar, streaking towards Helbrecht’s distant glitter. Glancing back, its occupants could already see the frigate powering away, dwindling against the blaze of stars until it was lost entirely from sight, only a single sunlike flash of its drives igniting as it swept back to the arching glow of the galactic interior. Before them, the star and its still-invisible complement of worlds drew closer, the lander penetrating Helbrecht’s heliosheath with a silent scream and passing through its encircling gulf of icy debris.

Inquisitor Aldredict made his way upfront to watch their progress, his guts churning as he contemplated their destination.

There. A flicker of shining light to starboard, growing every minute until his eyes could discern its colour, its roundness. It was a ball of smoked canary yellow, caressed at its poles by a striated rosy blush. The curve of a single large moon cut the blackness beyond as it rose behind its parent world, tidally locked and lighted on both sides so that it was a place of never-ending day. The planet had been known for eighteen years as the Sentinel: the most outlying of the Imperium’s worlds in this region. To those aboard the lander it had another, informal name – The Third Death.

Aldredict fell back into his seat and allowed himself to be buckled in, closing his eyes as they began their juddering fall into the sky.

Planetary Governor Grintis Poluvius snapped awake, his heart pounding in his scrawny chest. He rolled himself out of his sweat-stained sheets and staggered naked on spindly legs to the commode. He shrugged on a dirty robe and took a few dribbling sips of virustree wine from the jug by his bedside, swishing it about in his mouth. He’d started losing teeth a couple of years ago, and probed one of the few remaining with his tongue, feeling it wobble back and forth in the gum. Not long now.

He stood for a time in his grand, messy bedchamber, the neck of the jug still clenched in one emaciated hand. He knew there was something important about today – something that made it different from the last five thousand of his tenure here – but in his sleep-addled state he couldn’t recall what. He hadn’t left the security of the castle walls for thirteen years, a blur of days spent peering out at the vile horizon, fearing what might be looking back. He stared at the rays of sunlight pouring in through the shutters, bolted closed for a decade, and heard someone shuffle past his doorway, their boots clattering on the rusty iron floor.

‘Servitor!’ he cried thinly, shambling across the room and rapping on the door. ‘What’s happening today?’

The silence seemed to hesitate. ‘Drop-ship scheduled,’ came the muffled, monotone voice from the other side of the door.

Grintis’ watery eyes widened and he unlocked the door with trembling fingers, throwing it open. The hunched domestic servitor unit, carrying an armload of linen, turned its head jerkily in his direction. It stared vacantly back at him.

‘Get on with it then!’ Grintis screeched, shambling to his wardrobe to select the only finery he had left. He dressed with shaking hands, splashed his armpits from the bowl and drained the remainder of the jug, his heart thrashing until he thought it would give up on him entirely. He relocked the doors of his chamber behind him as he left, running a hand over his bald scalp. A great day indeed. At last they would have the men and supplies they needed, a Chapter of Space Marines, perhaps, a company at the very least. He’d begged the powers of the Ultima Segmentum for years for this, and now the day had come.

And just in time. He’d lost another of his Pallidi only two days before to the general attrition of the planet. Most went missing on patrols in the wastes, but this one, Ranald, had hurled himself from the parapet. In the high gravity he’d hit the mud of the courtyard harder than seemed natural, popping and squirting like a grape.

Grintis followed the line of the steel traps along the hallway, keeping his bare feet well clear of their jaws. He ought to have had these all collected up before their guests arrived, but it was too late now. The castle was built atop a gnarled, rust-brown plug of steep volcanic rock – the only outcrop for miles around. Whatever was making its way in here while they slept, it knew how to climb.

He scurried down an iron spiral of stairs, the excitement quickening in his gut as he opened the hatch at the outer battlement, the still, moist air making his skin itch and crawl, the sweat already seeping into his gown.

A wall of canary-yellow, moss-wreathed jungle rose beyond the ramparts, its canopy towering almost level with the castle’s highest spire, alive with screeching sound. The forest blanketed this land, pressing in on the castle from all sides, so dense and tangled and suffocating that you could see no more than a few yards into its depths. Grintis gave the canopy – the yellow fronds close enough to brush with his fingers, if he reached out – a quick, uneasy glance as he crossed the five-foot-thick outer rampart, stepping out across a narrow stone bridge connected to a ramshackle wooden tower. Below was a sheer drop to the rusted iron wall and the umber shadows of the jungle.

He thought he’d heard something before, many times. A roar, descending from the grey clouds. But now it was no mirage. They had come.

Grintis went to the parapet. The bulky ship was circling low over the jungle, searching for a possible landing spot, its drive emitting a noticeably laboured growl. Grintis knew it couldn’t stay aloft in the dense, particulate-heavy cloud for long, and hoped they could see the single landing pad, in the castle’s interior.

Soon enough the craft was decelerating past the windows of the inner keep, whipping up a bellowing fog of vapour as it came to rest in the mud amongst the grox pens. The scream of the creatures, some of them burned by the ship’s thrusters, pierced the falling silence, and Grintis made his hurried way down.

He arrived in time to see a mountain of a Primaris Space Marine, armoured in the black cuirass and white pauldrons of a Death Spectre, striding down the ramp, his boots thumping as he surveyed them with pink eyes from an albino face. Grintis had only seen their kind once before, years ago, and the sight brought a film of tears to his eyes. Another Death Spectre, precisely like the other, came after, and they stood sentry in the mud to either side of the ramp while a procession of smaller figures came stepping down.

Grintis peered across the muck and rooting grox of the castle courtyard, his watery eyes dissolving the arrivals into a scattering of blurred colours, until they strode closer.

A man, his white beard neatly pointed, clad in pauldrons of coppery verdigris that dripped assorted chains and charms, approached. Behind him walked a retinue of four similarly fanciful figures, a tall woman among them.

Grintis’ guts flittered. Inquisitor. Not what he’d asked for, not at all. He wracked his brains for anything in his frantic, wheedling messages that might have drawn them here.

Of course. They had come for that reprobate Valletrios, out at the tower. Grintis knew it had been a mistake to mention him. He squinted for any sign of more Death Spectres, then gazed at the clouds, looking for an escort vessel. No more troops, no medicines, no supplies. Was this it?

The shadow of the inquisitor arrived at Grintis’ feet, and the governor dropped immediately to one knee in the mud, his retinue of crimson-armoured Pallidi following suit.

‘Get up,’ came the surprisingly high, almost breathless voice, and Grintis staggered to his feet.

Vaine Aldredict, high inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos, looked the ratlike governor up and down and headed for the open maw of the keep’s main entrance. He needed something to drink.

The place smelt no less rank on the inside, and his men tramped the mud and groxshit inside with them as they arrived at a long table beside the hearth and collapsed into high iron chairs. The humidity here was insufferable: a glaze of sweat had already broken out across his forehead as the governor shuffled in, scraping a bow.

‘Wine,’ called Aldredict, thumping the table with his open palm a few times for emphasis. He noted the sluggishness of the shabby red militia as they came through with dusky, unmarked bottles, then turned his gaze once more to the governor.

‘Grintis Poluvius, majesty,’ said the governor, exposing four wet, brown stumps of teeth as he smiled. ‘Governor of the Sentinel.’

Aldredict nodded, taking a sip of the sour stuff they’d poured him and grimacing. ‘What is this?’

‘Um, it’s our home-made wine, majesty – from the nuts of the trees.’ Grintis sat tentatively, filling his own cup. ‘Well, they’re not trees, as such, but giant viruses, evolved along the same lines to catch light–’

‘Yes, good, very interesting,’ muttered Aldredict, pushing away his cup. He gestured to the others at the table, beginning with the glowering woman to his right. ‘My retinue – Bethald, Bjaric, Paeletrus and apprentice Interrogator Oretheus.’ He nodded in the direction of the looming black shadows that flanked the entrance to the keep. ‘And you’ll have seen our twin Death Spectres, Borius and Lazelemy.’

Grintis nodded eagerly. ‘And the reinforcements I called for–’

‘I’ll keep it simple,’ Aldredict interjected, toying with a chain that hung against the greenish metal of his plackart. ‘Our intelligence suggests that you harbour a heretic. Valletrios Gierus Tallis, formerly a magos explorator here at the Sentinel Watch.’

Grintis’ eyes flicked between the members of the inquisitor’s retinue, his tongue running across the brown ruins of his teeth before he spoke. ‘He has an outpost, in the jungle. He shut himself away. I sent some men to get some answers out of him and he killed them – he booby-trapped the damn place, and–’

Aldredict nodded briskly. ‘Show Bjaric, on a map.’

One of the Pallidi went to fetch a map of the conquered area, a pitifully small, leaf-shaped pattern of lines converging on the castle’s volcanic outcrop. A smaller outpost had been erected a few miles into the forest, and was connected to the castle via one of these tributaries. Bjaric, stooping over the chart, tapped the lines as they unrolled it across the table. ‘What are these, roads? Pathways?’

Grintis giggled nervously under his breath. ‘Did you see any coming in? We couldn’t lay a road out here if we wanted to – the jungle just grows back, right before your eyes. Those are the tunnels.’

‘You dug tunnels?’

‘We didn’t. They were there already.’ Grintis turned to one of his hunched soldiers, who was hovering by his side. ‘Expanded some, didn’t we? Put in supports and what have you, blocked off most of the others we could find.’ He regarded Aldredict and licked his lips. ‘Didn’t know where they led to.’

Aldredict absorbed this, casting his gaze through the open arch towards the grox pens. ‘Where’s your scout ship?’

‘Lost, on patrol. You may have noticed craft hit difficulty here – something to do with the air. Particulates.’

The inquisitor grunted, unimpressed. He was starting to see why things moved so slowly here. It had been decades since High Marshal Helbrecht had swept through the system, harrying an alien threat known as the cythor fiends out towards the perimeter of the galaxy. He had founded the castle as he went in the hope of leaving a final stronghold, a place where the order of the Death Spectres could stand watch in case the fiends returned. This debauched, ramshackle place and its pitiful forty-five-mile perimeter was all that remained of that great dream.

Aldredict walked out onto the parapet. The moon had risen, its pallid glimmer replacing that of the sun behind the ever-present blanket of clouds, so that the jungle seemed hardly dimmer than before. Lazelemy and Borius stood sentry on the wall, gazing out.

‘The lander’s ruined, lord,’ growled Borius. ‘I have a detachment of servitors working on repairs.’

Aldredict glared at the Death Spectre. ‘How long?’

‘Approximately forty-eight hours.’

‘Hmm.’ His gaze travelled across the vastness of looming trees, a blanket of unending yellow. ‘Looks like we’re walking, then.’

‘Show me.’

The Pallidus studied the chart for a while, a bead of sweat pooling from the tip of his nose. To Aldredict the map looked almost bare, a simple collection of topographical squiggles, but the man seemed to recognise the features for what they were, for he was stabbing his gloved finger already at a small, roughly scratched line near the western limit.

‘Here, lord. Log dam, huge structure. Made by some burrowing thing. That was where we lost Thoble.’

Aldredict looked into the man’s face, searching it. ‘Shot by something, you said?’

The Pallidus nodded vigorously at the inquisitor, tapping the line of the dam again. ‘Just fell, right before my eyes. When I got to him there was a burnt hole below the ear, about this big’ – he touched the tip of his grubby index finger to his thumb – ‘hardly any blood. Invisible light bolt, I’d wager. Soundless, too – we never heard a thing.’

Aldredict broke eye contact and gazed out through the postern window. The squadron of Pallidi were still assembling behind them, heaving gear onto their crimson pauldrons and falling into line, the clatter of armour blotted out by Aldredict’s racing mind. He studied the tangle of yellow jungle, its spined leaves brushing up against the castle’s iron walls, one plasteel gauntlet clamped around the hilt of his chainsword. This was supposed to be a dull world – a place of simple, primordial, brainless life. But this one Pallidus said otherwise: that the viral forests held something more.

‘If you lie,’ he said, tipping his head fractionally in the Pallidus’ direction, ‘or are proven to have wasted my time…’ Aldredict couldn’t see the point in finishing the sentence, of endowing it with threats. That ratty, narrow-boned, untrustworthy face could well imagine the punishment.

‘Move out,’ he muttered, hardly turning to the men behind him, and craned his neck to glance at a watchtower rising above the iron walls. At Aldredict’s signal someone activated the mechanism, hoisting the spiked gate.

They trudged out of the castle’s shadow into the wheel ruts and puddles of rust-coloured mud, the great canary-yellow trees brooding over them. Sounds wittered and sank from the depths of the jungle canopy, thunderheads glowered and rumbled some miles off. The pale clouds, thick as smog and wrapping the planet so thoroughly that nothing at all could be glimpsed from orbit, offered no hint of blue sky. Somewhere out there a previous mission had – unbeknownst to Grintis – dropped in and comprehensively disappeared.

Aldredict surveyed his loaned squadron: a battered display of sullen, wary men in scratched flak and carapace armour. The Death Spectre Borius loomed blackly at his side, towering over Oretheus, Bethald and Paeletrus.

Aldredict nodded for them to advance, autoguns trained on the wall of yellow jungle ahead. They pushed their way in.

It was like sinking your face into a stagnant pool. The air thickened immediately, soup-like in his nostrils, strands of yellow foliage scratching his cheeks, slapping across his plackart. Aldredict caught a flowered branch in his eye once too often and hinged his helmet shut, forging on. It only got denser, a gloom falling over them all. The tangled underworld of the jungle was anaemic and pale, like straw kept over the winter, a dozen pairs of reflective eyes watching them from the thickets. The perimeter of the Imperium’s explorations lay three days north-west, along a cut path now long overgrown again. As to what might lie beyond, they had no idea. The castle had no ship equipped to fly reconnaissance, no vehicles; that simpering Grintis, watching in terror for the next pale plague, would hide behind his walls forever if he could. Aldredict smiled at the thought, waiting for Borius to scythe his chainsword through a stand of bone-brittle branches and heave all eight feet of his black-armoured body through, an instrument of colossal violence put to use clearing jungle debris. If that debris happened to include some intelligent denizen of the jungle, Borius would bring that honed, startling violence to bear upon them, too.

Turning to look back, the inquisitor could just make out the topmost spire of the place they’d left, a leaning spike of weathered metal that peered from the canopy of the forest above. He surveyed the dark, roiling clouds, looking for anything that flew; Grintis said that talent had not arisen in the creatures here, but Aldredict couldn’t believe it. He would spot some winged, flapping thing eventually and prove that pitiful excuse for a governor wrong. Indeed, was the semi-mythical creature he had come here to find not supposedly possessed of wings itself? They would know, soon enough.

‘The undergate will be left open for you–’

‘No’, said Lazelemy sharply as he stepped down into the dimness of the tunnel. ‘Lock it behind us.’

‘Compliance.’

The servitor shackled the gates behind them. The weak glow of widely spaced lanterns was all that lit the tunnel system below the castle, illuminating little beyond the glistening of wet stone, the glittering walls shot through with seams of tawny blue-grey that sparkled in the gloom.

Lazelemy and Bjaric made their way down the steep spiral of crude rock steps, loaded with provisions. It was two days to Valletrios’ tower, and nobody had been down here since Grintis had sent his request for help. The magos explorator, driven mad by his solitude, could have set any number of additional traps.

There were apparently hundreds of tunnels winding and weaving through the great plug of rock upon which the castle had been founded – either naturally occurring or the burrowings of some ancient subterranean creature – and men who went down the wrong ones had been known to disappear without a trace. As a result, Grintis had ordered the majority of them sealed, widening the largest to create a single thoroughfare that led out under the castle rock and beneath a tract of jungle to Valletrios’ tower. The tunnel had been marked so thoroughly by Imperial insignia and signposts that it was impossible to get lost, and all they needed to do was follow it for forty-eight hours or so until they reached the correct turning.

They spoke little as they walked, Bjaric’s breathing growing more ragged as he tried to keep up with Lazelemy’s great strides. It was the way Lazelemy liked it: silence and peace, his ears and eyes open, his explosive-shelled bolt rifle raised to his great pauldron, ready.

‘Perhaps he’s killed himself up there,’ said Bjaric suddenly, shattering the perfect, silent rhythm of Lazelemy’s stride. ‘All alone for months, maybe the madness finally got to him.’

The Death Spectre did not reply. Alive or dead, it was Lazelemy’s duty to stand over the body and announce that the God-Emperor of Mankind’s will had been done. Only then – and once in possession of the evidence Lord Inquisitor Aldredict had requested – could they return.

After a full day and night of unchanging light the valley slope intensified, a web of grasping, fingerlike branches rising to snare them as they slipped and slid their way down towards a tumbling, crimson river. Aldredict and his squad followed at a remove behind Borius, all of them unable to keep up with the Death Spectre’s enhanced stride.

Eventually the ground levelled as they came to the riverbank, the trees thinning mercifully to a low scrub of yellow moss and weeds. Things scampered and squealed from the depths, retreating into burrows on the banks at the sound of the approaching squad. Aldredict reached the river’s edge and peered into its current, his stomach turning at the mass of writhing life beneath the surface. Great balloon-like gullets filtered the rushing river for food, expanding and contracting darkly beneath the water, and further down the bank something yellow perched in an overhanging eave, something that seemed all glistening, bony fingers. It dangled them into the running water, snatching up writhing handfuls of prey.

‘Make ready to cross the river,’ Aldredict announced, his attention still absorbed by the life on its banks. Long, ribbon-like organisms were spooled out and basking on the mud, their tails flicking lazily in the dappled light. He turned, expecting to find the Pallidi already at his side, but discovering they had kept their distance. The few at the front were staring in distaste at the writhing life in the water. Harish, the man who’d provided his testimony and had been this way before, hung back and gazed into the surrounding forest instead, a heavy stubber gripped in his gauntlets.

He watches, thought Aldredict, for them.

‘Harish,’ he called. ‘Up front, with me.’ He strode out into the tumbling current, wading in the direction of one of the revolting floating sacs, the river running black for a moment as hundreds of flitting shapes darted from his advance. He thumbed the trigger on his chainsword and chopped his way through, swinging the screaming weapon back and forth through the water like a boy at play, then climbed the opposite bank.

Harish joined him, armour dripping. ‘We’re near, lord. Maybe half a day. It was around here that–’

Aldredict raised a hand. The sounds of the jungle had changed, softened. Where once there were shrieks and rattles, a silence had descended. His right fist hovered near the bolt pistol on his waist. He glanced at Borius, a black shape he kept always at the corner of his vision. The Space Marine stood alert, his preternatural hearing focused on the trees, casting his strange pink-eyed gaze into the jungle’s depths. Aldredict turned slowly back to the river to take in his scarlet-clad squad, resplendent against the billion shades of yellow forest. Even he, in his coppered shell of armour, stood out like a poisonous beetle in a world that had adapted to one single colour. Bethald, midway across the river, paused and glanced at him curiously.

Aldredict remained still and silent, aware that a pale gold lichen was already colonising the plasteel of his gauntlet, waiting. He could feel it: eyes on him. Intelligent eyes.

‘Come on,’ he said softly, unholstering the pistol.

‘Did you hear that?’ Bjaric whispered feverishly at his side for what felt like the hundredth time.

Lazelemy shook his head in the dim light. He had heard something, of course, with a pin-sharp clarity Bjaric could only dream of, but it was just some indigenous life, perhaps the carver of these tunnels, keeping pace with them as they walked. They had trudged for twenty-one hours – barring three short rest breaks for Bjaric – and Lazelemy felt at ease in the cool, moist air. His great slabs of muscle, pistoning smoothly and silently in the dark, were grateful for this exercise after so much time cooped up in the lander.

‘I need another stop,’ Bjaric panted. ‘Please, just for a while.’

Lazelemy hesitated before spying some more of the discarded machinery lying up ahead. He grunted his assent, strolling down to the heap of old mining equipment and inspecting it while Bjaric sat down heavily.

‘Stay close!’ Bjaric hissed, already dim in the gloom.

The number above the blocked passage read 102. It was the next one. Perhaps a hundred yards ahead lay a vast stretch of disused tunnel intended one day for the foundations of a second fortress. Lazelemy assumed it was nothing but a dead end.

He came to a stop, his enhanced eyes picking up colour ahead, in the darkness.

‘What is it?’ Bjaric muttered, the exhaustion in his voice palpable.

Lazelemy advanced on the splashes of crimson, his eyes swiftly resolving their form. It was Pallidus armour, lying strewn around the entrance to tunnel 103. Lazelemy inched forward, his gaze flicking between the rock walls and the bodies, assessing the danger. Valletrios had set an ambush.

He paused at a comfortable range, his bolt rifle drawn. They weren’t bodies. They were empty suits of carapace armour, sucked clean like crab shells.

‘What’s that? Bodies?’ Bjaric asked, his eyes only just making them out. Lazelemy ignored him as usual and picked up a chunk of rock the size of a lascarbine, then lobbed it into the tunnel.

It hit the ground with a crack, rolling past the heap of armour, and must have passed through a sensor beam: twin cannons unfolded with a groan from the tunnel ceiling and spluttered fire into the chamber. Lazelemy raised his massive arm and strode in front of Bjaric, soaking up some of the random fire before he could aim four precise, detonating shots at the cannons, which rained smoking shrapnel.

They moved quickly into the side tunnel before the echoes could die, jogging up a smooth, spiralling slope with their weapons drawn. The darkness was almost complete, and Lazelemy went ahead.

‘Remember,’ whispered Bjaric as they shuffled up a short flight of stone steps, ‘I need him alive–’

An ear-ringing shot obliterated the silence, lancing down from a concealed doorway in the twisting cavern above. Lazelemy fired a burst of bolt-rounds into the stone around the door, smashing it to rubble, and turned to check on Bjaric.

The man had vanished from the waist up, his legs and hips still leaning against the wall. Lazelemy searched the gloom for any sign of Bjaric’s upper body while he kept his weapon trained on the tunnel above, eventually locating some gory chunks back at the entrance. He fished in the dead Throne agent’s pack, taking out Bjaric’s valuable and much-polished set of torture implements, and made his way quietly back up the stair.

He met no resistance in the basement of the tower, and took the steps upwards into warmer, moister air. The stench of a menagerie curled down to meet him, and Lazelemy raised his eyes to a fall of droplets: waste dripping from hundreds of suspended cages hanging in the central vestibule, the floors corkscrewing around them. He saw a leaning silhouette watching him from above, its hands clasping the rails, and moved beneath the shadow of a hanging cage. The scrawny man-shape didn’t move.

‘Valletrios Gierus Tallis!’ Lazelemy called, his voice booming around the inside of the tower. ‘Surrender yourself!’

Still the shape remained motionless, and it was then that Lazelemy glimpsed the way one leg hung limp. He made his way up, following a thin trail of blood past the cages to the shadowy second floor, and advanced on the figure.

The magos explorator was dead, his neck and chest shot through with stone chippings. Lazelemy pushed him easily to the floor.

‘In the name of the Holy God-Emperor of Mankind,’ the Death Spectre said, ‘you are released from service.’

He looked up into the chandelier of dangling cages, continuing to the next floor. The place was just as cluttered and apparently disorganised as the castle, with teetering heaps of books and notes and yet more cages and bottles stacked against the corrugated metal walls. Some containers held life: swimming, writhing things that eyed him as he approached. One hairy creature had been decapitated – presumably in the interest of science – but was still apparently alive and mewling, its arms reaching vainly through the bars of one cage for its head, lying in another. Others were home to eggs and pods and flora samples that Lazelemy gave a less than cursory glance. Something greyish and shrivelled on a table had caught his attention instead.

It was man-sized and bat-like, clawed and apparently mummified in the dry air. A hideous skull, still lined with hair around the brows and jaw, opened its mouth in a silent, yawning scream. Lazelemy examined the cruel, hooked teeth, tapping them with a gauntleted finger, and looked for something to package it up in, satisfied that he hadn’t failed in his work after all.

He inspected it again, tweezing a set of gruesomely long claws between his fingers. This one had been dead a while, admittedly, but showed no signs of rot from the humid jungle air. If this really was one of the creatures Aldredict was searching for, then some had clearly survived Helbrecht’s purge. He peered more closely. It had not died a natural death. A burnt, bloodless hole had drilled right through its sternum, cauterising the flesh as it went.

A thick sheaf of notes stood to one side of the desk. Lazelemy leafed through them, skimming the magos’ spidery handwriting, before pausing at the last page. It contained a number of careful drawings of sharp, branching runes. Beneath the drawings Valletrios had scribbled the beginnings of a dictionary. He had been trying to decode an alien language.

Lazelemy’s head turned at a sound, coming from the floor above.

In the darkness beyond the hanging cages there drifted a noise like the scrabbling of claws on metal. He gazed into the dark upper floor, and made his way up the curve of stairway. As soon as his first heavy step met the iron of the stair the sound ceased. It’s heard me. Lazelemy ascended slowly to the fourth level, his ears attuned, and found three metal doors, two of which stood open.

He examined the empty open cells, before turning his attention on the third. Its thick iron door contained a porthole of scuffed, toughened glass, and he peered carefully inside, wondering what he was going to see. Lazelemy frowned. It appeared empty, too. He tried the handle. Locked. There had been a heavy brace of keys on a chain around Valletrios’ neck.

Returning with the keys, he tried each until the right one fitted and turned. The lock thumped open, and he grasped the handle.

The rank stench that drifted out struck him at once. Something had lived inside this place for a very long time. Lazelemy tensed his huge muscles, pushing the door open.

Nothing. The walls and floor and ceiling were bare. Only a breath gave it away.

Whatever was in here clung to the other side of the door.

They heard the dam before they saw it, a rushing, belching babble of water breaking against an obstacle, and followed one of the river’s many overgrown tributaries to a pool at the foot of the mound.

It was an ancient, towering heap of rotting matter, branches and trunks all sodden and reeking, the great virustrees piled atop one another to make a hovel for some industrious local species that stretched for miles in either direction. They had passed a few smashed and ruined sister dams already, all of them gently curving, and Aldredict suspected that the continent’s surface was spotted with innumerable concentric circles of the great ringed dams.

‘Look at this,’ said Bethald. She had crossed the pool and was examining something further along the body of the dam. Aldredict went to her side. Oretheus and Paeletrus arrived at Aldredict’s shoulder, all of them peering at what she’d found.

It was a marking, unlike anything used by the Imperium. Unlike anything Aldredict had ever seen, for that matter: a jagged, asymmetric pattern stamped in white across the interwoven branches of the dam’s wall. Aldredict stepped back, gazing along the length of the dam, spotting two more further down.

He recalled the emblems of the beasts the High Marshal had run to ground here – the things he searched for evidence of – and these markings were nothing like the jumbled runes of that race, either. These, as far as he could tell, were made by something unknown to humankind.

‘Harish!’ he hissed, waiting for the man to amble over. ‘Were these here last time?’

Harish blanched as he noticed the symbol, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. ‘No, lord.’

‘We’ll destroy it on the way back,’ Aldredict announced, dismissing the symbol with a wave, and looked for a place to climb. As he cast around for a foothold, his glance caught something – a shape – that had not been there before, filling a gap between two trees. He looked back, but it was gone. He stared into the jungle, eyes struggling to find their range between the penumbra of canary-yellow leaves, and resumed his climb.

The slimy vegetation came away in his grip just as he reached the dam’s summit, and Aldredict jammed his dagger into a rotted trunk for purchase, breathing heavily. The others followed in a clumsy, clanking ascent, blobs of struggling scarlet below, while Borius brought up the rear. He ignored them all, gazing out at the world.

They had come to the rim of the neighbouring valley, a rusty thread of river winding at its base. The valley slopes were a vastness of jungle that blazed and dimmed beneath drifting cloud shadows: golden one moment, jaundiced the next; land no human eye had ever seen.

But it had been claimed.

Aldredict stared, eyes narrowed, at the colossal fortress on the far slope, perhaps two miles away. The edifice was flat and undercut, like a great, angular fungus, but surrounded by tapering towers that looked out over the jungle. Along its sloped walls was painted the same white, jagged insignia, tall enough to be seen from across the valley, in an alien alphabet of sharp-thorned letters.

Harish was straddling the rim of the dam beside him, and clambered awkwardly to his feet, swaying a little on the ridge of rotten trees, shading his eyes with the flat of a hand. Aldredict ducked, instinctively.

It made no sound, as the man had said. The back of Harish’s head blew out in a froth of gore and bone shrapnel, spattering and slicing one side of Aldredict’s face. Harish’s body tumbled like a lead weight to the bottom of the dam, watched by his squad.

Twin bursts of rotten wood erupted to either side of Aldredict’s grip, and he let go, pitching forward and skidding down the front of the dam. He locked his knees before he hit, the force of it jarring his spine and skull.

‘Borius!’ he rasped, wiping the back of a gauntlet across the mess of his cheek and turning towards the wall of the dam, suddenly feeling hideously exposed. Muted cries came from the other side, stopping abruptly before a portion of the dam erupted, booming outwards. Aldredict fell back into the undergrowth as he was showered with rotten chunks of log, and looked up to see Borius striding through a large hole, river water pouring between his armoured legs. The Death Spectre raised his bolt rifle to his shoulder as the squad of Pallidi followed him through, dashing for position. Aldredict remembered the glimpse of the flash, still burnt into his retinas. The blast had come from one of the towers, all the way across the valley.

‘Presence!’ hissed one of the Pallidi to Aldredict’s right. ‘Jungle, left flank!’

Borius spun, bolt rifle aimed, and Aldredict caught a glimpse of a star-shaped, many-coloured and keratinous face peering at them through the trees. He met its bizarre horizontal pupils as Borius pulled the trigger, deluging the jungle. The squad opened up to either side, trees shuddering and falling, foliage erupting into roaring flame. Another of the brightly coloured creatures appeared at the rim of the dam above them, firing down into the throng in bursts of magnesium-bright light. Aldredict shielded his eyes and levelled his pistol, pummelling the dam with fire. Light to his right, dazzling enough to blind, and three of the crimson Pallidi fell beside him, their bodies shot through. Borius heaved the gun in their direction, its fire raking the trees, bullets roaring, tearing into the dense air of the jungle. He caught one of the yellow, spectral figures in one of its stilt-like legs, and it tumbled as the enormous gun clicked empty. Another came at him before he could fit a second magazine, fast as a scampering spider, seven feet of hideous movement. Borius unsheathed his chainsword in one mighty swing, sweeping it in a high arc and lopping the thing’s spiny head from its shoulders. Another flicker of retina-scorching light blew a hole in a crimson soldier before them, and Aldredict crouched, hurriedly clamping the ammunition into a Pallidus’ dropped carbine. He opened fire into the jungle, loosing sharp explosive bursts between the trees.

Borius took a shot in the arm, a crater forming in the ceramite of his armour, and slung his sword into his uninjured hand in time to slice an approaching xenos’ leg out from under it. The thing staggered, wobbling, and grasped Borius by the head. He thrust the chainsword all the way through its body, sawing with a grinding shriek of metal and bubbling a gout of bluish blood from the creature’s back. It roared in a voice that made Aldredict’s skin prickle with fresh sweat, tightening its grip on Borius’ head until the Death Spectre’s muscular neck snapped.

Aldredict dropped his weapon and sprinted for the river, stumbling into its rushing current and using the steep bank as a trench to hide him from the fortress.

‘Throne agents!’ he called, moving at a fast crouch as he dragged his legs through the water, the fury of weaponry booming all around. ‘Anyone!’

They were here all along, his frantic mind babbled. Here and waiting.

Very slowly, Lazelemy turned his head. Something was staring at him through the thickened glass porthole in the centre of the door. He met its eye, a nictitating membrane sliding wetly across a horizontal pupil.

It clambered over the top of the open door before Lazelemy could pull it closed, a clawed hand scrabbling for purchase at Lazelemy’s throat. He seized the creature by its many-jointed wrist and spun, hurling it out of the cell and down the steps. As it tumbled he glimpsed its bony, multicoloured form: a head, encrusted with a splayed crown of horns like a court jester of Old Earth, gangly legs twice the length of a man. It landed, swiftly pistoning its limbs to right itself, and he strode down to meet it.

The creature emitted a series of gibbering, simian squeals, baring a mouthful of long teeth. Lazelemy swung the first punch, aiming squarely for the thing’s horrible mouth and sending it crashing into the iron banister, the whole spiral of stairway thrumming with the impact. He offered it no time to recover, pressing his gauntlet into its snapping face and leaning out over the drop with his other arm to grasp a dangling loop of chain. He slipped the chain efficiently around the beast’s scrawny neck and stepped back, planting his boot against the metal railing, which ripped free of its bolts and tumbled into the precipice, the creature falling out of sight.

Lazelemy stood at the edge of the stair, gazing down at the swinging corpse. The cages above tinkled and swayed, their occupants screeching. After a moment’s silent thought he walked back down to the lower levels and sat for a short while, unable to reach anyone – either Aldredict and his agents in the jungle or Grintis’ men at the castle – on the portable vox-caster. He packed up the machine, returning to the desk and its stack of notes. Lazelemy gazed at the messy workspace, before kicking it over. A bundle of notes had been stuck to the table’s coarse wooden underside. He pulled them loose, spreading them out on the floor.

More runes, some scratched roughly out. The magos had been trying to write a message.

Lazelemy reached for the stack of translations, thumbing the pages as he searched for the corresponding symbols, beginning to decode what Valletrios had written.

I will not HURT YOU.

I bring FOOD.

NOT ENEMY.

Lazelemy grunted. It seemed the prisoner had not been cooperative. He turned to the next page, running his eye over a thick paragraph of runes, and set about his work once more.

To the TRUE lords and masters of this world – I, Valletrios Gierus Tallis, formerly a subject of the Emperor of Mankind, support your rightful claim to the Ghoul Stars and turn my back on the reckless expansion of my misguided species. Kill those at the outpost if it is your desire, but I beg that you spare my life – for in return I will offer you all the knowledge of the Imperium of Man.

He took the notes and went to one of the tower’s narrow window slits. The high jungle pressed so thickly at the walls that there was nothing to be seen. He gazed out anyway, listening, wondering, before finally setting off on the long, subterranean trek back to the castle.

Lazelemy felt a curious sensation of dread as he ascended the final stretch of tunnel, the mummified body slung over his back. All the Imperial channels were still silent. He decided not to repeat his call sign as he took the steps back up to the castle, in case the frequencies were being monitored, and walked silently up to the gate.

It was open, the lock missing. The lower rooms of the basement were empty, and nothing seemed out of place in the general clutter. Lazelemy dropped his cargo and took the last flight of steps into the light of the castle chambers.

The place was deserted, its doors all flung open to the jungle, light seeping in. Small creatures and spores had already managed to infest the place, and things scuttled and skittered away at his approach. He turned his attention to the chambers themselves, which appeared ransacked: tables upturned, chairs smashed, supplies thrown from cupboards and shattered on the floor.

Lazelemy spent some time inspecting a hole punched straight through one of the iron walls, cleaner than any Imperial ordnance. There were no bodies, no sign of Grintis or his remaining troops and servitors. The grox pens in the central keep were empty.

He found only one clue that there had been any human life here at all: a severed ear, lying incongruously in the mud near where their lander had touched down. Lazelemy squatted to examine it, before glancing at where the ship had settled. Only the marks of its landing gear and some scattered tools remained.

Lazelemy heaved closed the main gate, stacking as much smashed furniture against it as he could find, then made his way up to the westerly parapet to look out over the land. The Luminous Fury wouldn’t be plotting a course back towards the system for another two hundred days or more, and the single supply ship out of Logopol wasn’t due for twice that.

Lazelemy considered himself lucky, nonetheless. He knew now what the founders of the castle had not known: that this world was already spoken for.

But ownership was subject to change.

The Death Spectre stood tall and still on the rampart, gripping his bolt rifle.

It would be a long and lonely vigil, but he was prepared.

LEPIDOPTEROPHOBIA

Dan Abnett

My lord, at last we come to our final report. This concerns Medea Betancore, an agent of the infamous Inquisitor Gregor Eisenhorn, as she pursues her mission to obtain a tome of lost and forbidden knowledge in the city of Queen Mab. In doing so, Betancore comes face to face with her greatest fear, as alluded to in this report’s title (as my lord is a learned man, I am certain you will know to what it refers without the need for a cogitator search), and must meet this challenge in order to fulfil her notorious master’s request.

I trust that you have found the contents of this dossier informative, and that my lord now has a clearer picture of the Inquisition’s operations in the present millennium, regardless of the questionable veracity of the reports held within. Once again, I thank you for your patience, and would ask you to bear this undertaking in mind during future reviews of ordo personnel.

NOTE: THE ADEPT ASSIGNED TO COMPILE THESE REPORTS WAS TERMINATED UPON TRANSMISSION, AS PER THE LORD INQUISITOR’S ORDERS.

Where is delight? and what are pleasures now?–

Moths that a garment fret.

The world is turned memorial, crying, ‘Thou

Shalt not forget!’

– Anodos (Mary Elizabeth Coleridge)

Just south of Toilgate, in the shadow of that great monument, lay a warren of courtyards and alleys known variously as the booksellers’ market or the Remainders.

It was a little maze of street stalls and tiny shops that threaded the worn brick and stone buildings of that quarter, and its little nooks and passageways occasionally opened into the pale sunlight of small yards or courts where dealers set out their wares. It was a quiet place, and but for these small oases of sunlight, a place almost permanently shadowed. The winding alleys were narrow, so that two pedestrians encountering one another might have to turn sidelong in order to pass, and the walls were high, blocking the daylight with their mouldering brickwork and rheumy, blinded windows. The market had been there for a long time, perhaps for as long as Queen Mab had been a city, and was the haunt of the solitary, the scholarly, the bibliophilic and, from time to time, the lost, who had become turned about on Saint Zoroast Circle, or had stepped the wrong way off the Toilgate Road.

It was here that Medea stumbled upon the book that would later unlock many secrets, but this happenstance did not occur without uncanny hazard.

It was just after noon on a middleday, and she came to the market as herself, which is to say as Medea Betancore, a Glavian shipmistress. She wore a tailored suit of soft black, black boots of patent leather, and the scarlet gloves associated with the pilot-caste of Glavia. She carried a small groxskin satchel over her shoulder. Her hair was bound back from her face, her eyes bright and inquisitive, and her skin a lustrous dark, quite at odds with the drab shadows of the market quarter.

She came as herself, for it was her day off, and though her garb was formal, it was a liberating relief from the coarse red vestments and starched gull-wing headdress that she was obliged to wear the rest of the time. For the other six days of every week, and for almost two decades, she lived in the disguise of Sister Bismillah, a nun administering to the needs of orphans at the Scholam Orbus on Highgate Hill. This was her role, her duty, as directed by her master, an agent of the Holy Ordos. As Sister Bismillah, her assignment was to watch over a certain child, now a young woman, who was a pupil at the Maze Undue that adjoined the orphanage.

No task had ever lasted as long, and Medea had never sustained a cover identity for quite so many years. The guise of Bismillah, the simple, ascetic life of work and contemplation, had become such second nature that she had almost forgotten how to be her original self. Such were the sacrifices made by servants of the Throne. The motley, secret team to which she belonged had come to Queen Mab nearly twenty years before to begin its slow and forensic investigation of a hidden evil, and there was every chance it would be another twenty before a conclusion was reached and the evil rooted out.

But Medea persevered. This was the life she had chosen, or perhaps which had chosen her, and she was unfailingly loyal to the Throne, and to the service of her master.

So it was that for six days every week, she existed as Sister Bismillah, and performed the task her master had set her to watch over the singular girl in the Maze Undue. For the other day each week, the day she was given leave to be absent from the foundling school, she became her old self and, rather than resting, she set about her duty in a different manner.

She trawled the great city’s markets, bazaars, libraries and museums looking for clues. They all did this, the whole team, though the others – her master, Harlon, Deathrow, and even the thing named Cherubael – were at liberty to do it seven days a week. They combed the ancient city for secrets and signs, for their task was to somehow find the so-called King in Yellow, and to devise some means to enter his occulted lair, known in legend as the City of Dust.

In truth, after near twenty years of scrutiny, they knew very little, not even the identity of the King. All they knew for certain was that he represented an ancient and lingering threat to the security of the Imperium, and that his veiled lair – by some metaphysical means – occupied and overlapped the very same space as the city of Queen Mab on Sancour.

On her precious free days, Medea favoured the city’s many markets, for she had found that all manner of curiosity and oddness could be turned up on their stalls. She would visit the art dealers on Olitonhall, the print-mongers at the Talltown Commercia, or the scrap-tech brokers who laid out their rusting, salvaged wares upon oilskin sheets on the waste ground behind Coalgate. She would go by the curio shops and antique emporia on Ropeburn and Tie’s Hill and Cloaken Place, and peer at the treasures displayed in their windows. She would tarry in the cloth market on Fayside Wharf and, under the wide leaden roof of the old warehalls, sometimes spy strange glyphs and symbols woven into the patterns of rugs and carpets shipped in from the Herrat.

The city was full of secrets, or at least partial secrets and fragments of truth, and all of them were old. It had been remarked upon that Queen Mab was an unsettlingly strange place. Its ancient streets and meandering thoroughfares seemed to act as a lodestone, drawing to it every last, lost thing that had ever been discarded or mislaid by the human race. It was like the high water line on some forlorn beach, where the tides of space had washed up the flotsam and jetsam of civilisation. Medea and her colleagues had, over the years, found all kinds of trinkets, their purposes now indecipherable, which evidently pre-dated man’s expansion to the stars from Terra. They had found nameless things, and the components of nameless things, that had been made long before even the Dark Age of Technology. No one could say, not even her master, why such objects had found their way to Sancour, except that the currents of the void or the eddies of the immaterium had carried them there, and deposited them, like sun-bleached bones or rusted shipwrecks on the shingle of a dead, stilled, saline sea.

Sancour – and Queen Mab – was like a scrapbook of obscured culture, a memorial to the forgotten. None of the objects had ever given up its answers, despite careful analysis. Medea had come to believe that, if it was a truly comprehensible answer they were seeking, it would most likely be found in words, in texts, and thus the book markets were her most common destination. There were several such, dotted around the city, but the Remainders beneath Toilgate was the largest.

That afternoon, she made her way into the shadowed warren. The dealers, silently pensive men and women who seldom made eye contact, had set up their stalls throughout the alleys and little courts, further diminishing the pavements and passing spaces. Some books were spread out on rugs, or in wire baskets or old fruit cartons. Some were arranged in little window displays, crammed tight, or rested upon wooden lecterns and reading stands liberated from long-closed libraries or deconsecrated temples. Such books were splayed open, like pinned birds or butterfly specimens, with little lead bars or cushions of sand to weight their pages, so that their fine illuminations were visible to passing trade. Many stalls were shaded by canvas awnings, which stirred softly in a breeze that could otherwise not be felt. Pages stirred too, twitched by the same breeze, whispering like fallen leaves in autumn.

If she was being honest with herself, Medea found the book market disquieting.

She was a capable and confident woman, and in her long life she had faced down many dangers without demur: sometimes dangers that would have robbed another soul of its sanity. She presented as a woman in her late thirties: uncommonly beautiful, lithe and distinguished by a keen intelligence. Discreet juvenat work down the years had maintained this illusion of youth, for in fact she had seen nigh on two centuries of life and, in those centuries, some of the greatest horrors the benighted universe could unleash. She had endured. She wore the attire of the Glavian pilot-caste, though it was hardly a disguise, for two reasons: for one, a respectable shipmistress would curry greater favour and service from vendors and dealers anxious to make a sale; for the other, it was the one day each week she could remind herself who she truly was. Her true self was an escape from the shackles of Sister Bismillah… and a disguise for Bismillah too, in case she was seen.

For though she was looking for secrets, others were looking for her.

Medea Betancore, Glavian pilot, servant of the Ordos, was a very able operator. But, and she had never admitted this to anyone, not even her beloved master, she had a secret fear, a phobia that had stalked her since childhood. The endless, shuffling whisper of the twitching pages in the market made her skin crawl.

She followed Danzik’s Passage, behind the old chapel-house, stopping twice to browse the stands of lurking dealers. Her red-gloved hands turned pages, and examined spines, and sorted through crates of almanacs and poetry chapbooks. The fear lurked at the back of her skull, like an itch.

The Remainders was a relatively safe quarter of the city. It was far away from the wretched holloways and the vicious warblind gangs, and there were few cutpurses or pickpockets to watch for. The worst one might encounter were the Curst beggars, the pitiful burdeners, who hustled for alms on some street corners and byways.

But the fear remained, an uneasy itch. It was the rustle of the pages, the stir of leaves. It reminded her, for all she tried to ignore the thought, of dry, dusty wings.

The name of her anguish was lepidopterophobia. This was, according to medicae learning, a fear of moths and butterflies. Such harmless, fragile things, often miraculously patterned and beautiful, yet Medea found them quite distressing.

She could make no account of it. Irrational fears are, after all, irrational. There was, as far as she could recall, no causal moment from her childhood, no triggering incident when she, as a young girl, had been alarmed or surprised by a sudden flurrying moth or fluttering butterfly. Her late mother, and other members of her clan, had often teased and chided her when she recoiled from the sudden whirr of wings. ‘My dear girl,’ her uncle had said, ‘I do not understand your repulsion. The lepidoptera are courageous things. They are very like us. They are frail creatures that nevertheless brave the perils of flight, despite their fragility. They are like Glavians in their determination to command the sky.’ She had never been able to supply him with a satisfactory reply, and now it was too late, for he, like the father she had never met, had fallen from the sky a long time since.

It was not flying things per se that made her phobic. Flies and stinging insects didn’t bother her in the slightest, not even the drone buzz of them. It was the dry flutter that made her shudder: the dusty, powdered shiver of their wings, the soft, furred nature of their bodies, the feathered twitch of their antennae, the way they beat and pattered against window panes, or burred around a lamp at dusk. It was the sound of them, and the silence of them.

Medea knew the Remainders well, for she had been there many times down the years. She knew the layout of the open courts and crepuscular passageways, and the locations of various notable dealers. Most dealers had a speciality: vendors of alchemical and anatomical works clustered in Stern’s Court; purveyors of history lined Molkine Way; dealers in literature and classics set out their stalls in Governor’s Walk and Balference Court; vendors of engineering and mechanical tracts congregated in Tylass Row, Naeme’s Court and Chylight Underwalk. For maps and charts, and pictographic engravings, one had to visit Hinter’s Passage, for biography Sylasic Court, and for miscellanea the low yards of Dank’s Alley.

For works of a more curious or esoteric nature, the best place was a small court accessible via a flight of steps descending from Tylass Row, which led to a place called Grammaticus Yard.

Here, the sunlight seldom reached, even at midday, and a dozen booksellers vied for yardage on the shadow-pooled cobbles to display their wares. Because of the perpetual gloom in the little yard, most dealers suspended brass lamps or old glow-globes from their awnings, so that customers could see to peruse the stock. Moths inevitably batted around these lamps.

The yard was almost empty when she reached it. The acid yellow glow of the lamps filled the twilight under the canvas. High above, a little oblong of blue, noonday sky was visible, boxed by the ancient darkness of the buildings on every side.

She could hear the flutter of book leaves in the breeze.

There were but a few customers present, browsing the stalls like somnambulists. Most looked to her like scholars or academics, most likely from the Academy Hecula, researching their dissertations. One, a younger man, reminded her for a moment of Belovoir, but it was not him.

There was a drowsy air to the yard. Only a handful of the vendors were visible. One old woman was re-sorting books in the boxes on her stand, as if annoyed that they had been disturbed by customers. An elderly man in a frock coat sat in a worn armchair at the back of his stand, almost half-asleep, smoking ’roma from a bubble pipe. The others, she presumed, were in the darknesses of their tiny shops, cataloguing stock or taking noontide naps, or perhaps had stolen off to the caff-houses on Molkine for a bite of lunch. On vacant stands were little handwritten signs saying ‘will return presently, please browse’, and little ceramic bowls or brass dishes in the shape of cupped hands had been set out to accept payment according to an honesty system.

The leaves whispered.

Cats prowled the sleepy quiet of the court – strays, she guessed. They sat on stacks of books and washed their faces, or gazed from shadows with unblinking eyes. Some slept in baskets on top of manuscripts, or basked in the small patches of sunlight where it penetrated the little court. One, she saw, chased a moth around a lamp. The silent and languorous mood of the cats entirely suited the yard. It was a place of soft, feline lassitude.

Medea surveyed the stalls. She knew them well, but the stock changed regularly, and all manner of new oddities might turn up. She had to disturb a fat yellow tomcat in order to examine an old atlas of Sancour. The animal regarded her indignantly as it repositioned itself. The atlas, too old and faded to be legible, was worthless.

There was no perceptible breeze, yet pages stirred with a moth-wing fidget. Her skin crawled again, but there was work to do. She thought of Belovoir, and wondered what had become of him. A few years earlier, to assist with the legwork, she had employed two or three bookfinders, all students of the Academy eager to earn a little extra income. Praed Belovoir, an anxious young man with thyroid eyes, had been the most competent. He was reading Neoclassical Philosophies at the Academy, and had a good nose for books. In exchange for a few coins each week, he dredged the markets on her behalf, returning with likely volumes or information on more expensive items. Nothing of what he found was of any real use, but he was keen, and through him she had been able to map the city book markets. He was able to list dealers for her, and their locations, and their specialities. With his help, she had gained a greater understanding of the city’s second-hand book trade than she would have obtained by herself during her one free day a week.

He had been glad of the work, and had never asked any questions as to her purpose or motives. Then, one day about six months before, he had stopped coming to her, without a word. She presumed he had found better and more gainful employment elsewhere, but she had never seen him again.

She came to Mam Tarding’s stall. The old woman was still fussing with her crates, and paid Medea no mind. Across the way, a customer was haggling with an elderly dealer over the price of a first edition Savignor’s A Historie of the Greate Unification. A cat slunk by in the shadows of the tables.

The baskets at the front of Mam Tarding’s stall were filled with unbound manuscripts, great concertina folds of raw pages that were reproductions of old and frail works. For a small price, a customer could purchase the uncut bundles; for a higher fee, Mam Tarding could arrange to have them trimmed and bound by a local bookbinder.

This was how Medea found the book. She was searching the manuscripts in the baskets, trying to stifle her distaste, for the unbound paper fluttered and rustled in the breeze with more agitation than the bound books, and made her flesh creep. She had just turned up a potentially interesting reprint of Constanza’s Rubric when a large moth rebounded from the lamp over her head, and landed with a percussive tap on the pages in her hand. She recoiled, despite herself, dropped the manuscript, and backed away sharply, bumping into the table of an adjacent stall. Mam Tarding looked up from her re-sorting, shot Medea a dirty look, and went back to her work.

Medea recovered herself, and felt foolish. The moth was a small thing, so much smaller than her, but its whiskered grey form filled her with revulsion, and she gritted her teeth as she heard it thrum into the air and circle aimlessly away.

She turned to look at the table she had backed into, anxious to make sure she had caused no disarray, for the booksellers could be an irritable lot. But there was no sign of a dealer present, just four small trestle tables, choked with books, under a canvas awning outside the doorway of a tiny shop. The door was closed, and there was no sign propped in it promising an imminent return. Beside the door was a small display window, the glass dusty and begrimed, the window space piled with ageing volumes. The interior of the tiny shop was dark.

No apology was necessary. Nothing had been disturbed. Medea was about to move away when she realised there was something odd about the shop. She had not seen it before, or noticed it at least, not on any of her previous visits. Above the door was written ‘M. Borgez, prop’. The name was not familiar. Belovoir had never spoken of a proprietor by that name.

She started to look at the wares more closely. The books were very old and worn, and many she did not recognise. A Treatise of Lunar Rocketry, a History of the Low Country Waterways, something called a Baedeker’s Guide, a folded map of coloured lines that appeared to correspond to some lost city’s subterranean railway system. There was a volume entitled The Shorter Fiction of Cervantes, and a copy of verses by someone named Keats or Yeats, though the cover was so decrepit it was hard to make it out for certain.

The books were of immense age, and some, even to her inexpert eyes, were clearly written in the languages of Old Terra, the multiple forms that predated Low Gothic. Here, of all heresies, was a hymnal. Here, a grimoire of mystically erotic sketches by a man named Spare. Here was a small volume named Petit Albert, filled with hermetic symbols.

And here was a gazetteer of the stars.

She picked it up. There was no sleeping cat to coax aside; indeed, of all the stalls in the little yard, M. Borgez’s premises had no cats lurking around it at all.

Medea opened the book. It was comparatively new, unstained and un-foxed. It was titled Of the Stars in the Heaven (with ephemeris), and it had been written by one Fredrik Dance, who had, it appeared, once served as the Astronomer Elect at the court of the Baron Prefect of Queen Mab. It was written in Low Gothic, with a comparative text presented in Enmabic, and boasted that it presented an inventory of all constellations visible from Sancour. As a Glavian shipmistress, such works interested her, and as a Glavian shipmistress, accustomed to the arrangements of the outer heavens, she knew at once that it was filled with errors. The star charts presented inside did not in any fashion match the star systems of Angelus.

Medea turned the pages, frowning. It was a curious find, a deranged work. Perhaps this Dance fellow had been quite mad, though the technical detail and composition was very precise and thorough. A thought struck her, and made her as uneasy as the constant rustle of paper leaves around her. Though it was a very long shot, and her master would no doubt dismiss it, perhaps this odd book offered a glimpse, a rare insight into the other, sideways place, the lair of the King that they had been seeking for so long.

It was certainly worth investigation. She decided she might purchase it, and examine it at her leisure. But there was no price marked in graphite on the flyleaf, nor any bowl in which to leave a payment. She tucked the book under her arm and decided to examine the stall further until the mysterious M. Borgez returned from his luncheon.

Time passed. The dealer did not reappear. While she waited, Medea found other oddities on the tables. They were all fragments of Old Terran literature, washed up here, no doubt, by the unruly gusts of time and space that carried all strange things to the shore of Queen Mab. But if that was so, then this little shop in this obscure yard represented a particularly fierce tidal bore, an eddying undertow of unusual strength. Such a peculiar concentration of things had ended up here, as if borne by a singular rip tide of chance.

She grew impatient. Time was getting on. She went across to the murky window and tried to peer inside. Perhaps the proprietor was in there. It was hard to see, for the panes were too smoked with dust and age. To her disgust, she saw that the inside sill was thick with the desiccated husks of moths that had flown into the shop and perished trying to beat their way out through the glass.

She could see no one within, but she could see the jumbled books crammed on display. One, most dilapidated, had half its spine missing, but on what was left she could see the incomplete title ‘…in Yellow’, and the name Chambers. She stared at it through the thick, dirty glass. That, she was certain, was a volume she needed to examine.

Medea went to the door of the shop. She knocked and listened, but heard no reply. The door handle was an ornate brass security lock, quite modern, with a digital mechanism. M. Borgez favoured greater security than most dealers in the Remainders. She tried the door anyway.

It was unlocked.

With the astronomical gazetteer under her arm and the satchel across her body, she went inside. The shop interior was a miniature realm of shadows, where hardly any light came through the door panes or the little window. Books were piled on every side, well over head height, or arranged on teetering shelves, and formed a narrow canyon into the bowels of the place. There was barely room to move, and the air was thick with dust and the smell of paper rot.

She called out a hello, but there was no answer. She called out again, this time the name.

‘Master Borgez?’

She edged inside, groping her way in the gloom, making a strenuous effort not to knock or disturb any of the perilous book stacks either side of her. It was warm, almost airless, and she could hear the soft rustle of papery leaves.

Medea thought to reach the window display from behind, but the way was blocked by a daunting cliff-face of books. Instead, she went further inside, hoping that the narrow defile between shelving might open out deeper in the shop, and that she might be able to turn around the stacks and make her way back to the window. The dark canyon of books merely led deeper. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the half-light. Loose pages had fallen on the floor and been trodden underfoot. She called the proprietor’s name again.

Leaves rustled.

The slender ravine of books led back a long way, so deep in fact she lost sight of the shop door, and began to wonder how deceptively large the tiny shop must be. The premises had to run back under the shops of Tylass Row, perhaps even under the raised walkway adjacent to St Coglass Halcyon. It was a burrow, like the dwelling of some scurrying animal, lined in books, or like the narrow tunnel of some mine’s workface where men might labour with pickaxes to work free seams of printed lore.

The ravine ended in a T-junction, where another thin avenue crossed it. This too was lined with shelves. To the right, stacked books vanished into the darkness. To the left, there seemed to be a glimmer of light. She went that way, stumbling over boxes of stock left on the walkway, her gloved hand feeling its way against rows of embossed leather spines. There was a light ahead.

‘Master Borgez?’ she called out.

There was still no answer, but the book tunnel gave out into what seemed to be a small reading room. This too was entirely lined with books, but in the centre was a small table and a chair, and over the table a glow-globe was suspended on a chain. The globe shone weakly, making shadows in every corner. Sluggish moths orbited the globe, wearily knocking against its dusty shade.

She held her breath in distaste, and edged around the room. A small alcove, no wider than her shoulders, led into the darkness of another corridor. Medea put the gazetteer into her satchel so both her hands were free, and found a light switch on a patch of bare wall. She pressed the switch, and a series of glow-globes slowly welled up with light along the corridor ahead.

She could see, to her amazement, that there was a whole library down there, row upon row of overstuffed shelves filling what was clearly a large, low-ceilinged space. It was labyrinthine. The passing ways between the shelves were so narrow they could only be slid along side-on, and the air was fearfully musty. Antique glow-globes lit up each section with pale light, a tobacco haze, and the lights of adjoining walkways forced their glow between the books on the shelves. Moths, drawn by the new lights, whirred past her, circling between the stacks.

She had begun to lose her sense of direction, but she felt if she went left again, she might be able to turn back and make her way to the window at the front of the shop. Her heart was beginning to beat rather too fast, and she couldn’t catch her breath. She decided she would retrace her steps, exit the shop, and leave an appropriate payment for the gazetteer on the tables outside. More fool M. Borgez for failing to attend a customer.

But then the lights went out.

The darkness was solid and sudden. She started. Perhaps the globes had been on a timer switch that had popped back out. The enfolding darkness was even more stifling. The place was so fusty, her throat was dry with book mould. She tried to feel around and find the way out, but touched only books on every side of her, pressing in. She felt, or thought she felt, the brush of dusty wings against her cheeks: other lost souls searching for the light.

She tried to stay calm. She groped her way again. She could hear a tapping sound, the persistent, irregular patter of something knocking against a window. It sounded like a moth. A large moth, beating itself mindlessly to death against a panel of glass.

Medea swallowed her fear. She felt her way along the books in the pitch-black. She sensed, just ahead, an open space.

A light came on, as suddenly as the others had shut off.

She winced at the abrupt glare of it. Another antique glow-globe, hanging from a chain, illuminated another small reading space. It was not the same one as before. There were two chairs here, and a reading stand on the little desk. Perhaps, she thought, the lights in the shop were motion sensitive, switching on only when someone was nearby in order to conserve power. That was perhaps why the others had gone off and this one had come on.

There was a book propped open on the reading stand. She almost didn’t regard it, but something about it drew her eye.

It was a copy of The Spheres of Longing by Gideon Ravenor.

Fear chilled her, even more than the distant tapping of the monstrous, unseen moth. How could that be? How could that book, of all books, be here, and left open for her to see?

She sat down and stared at it, and then laughed. Of course. Of course. This was it. Finally. This was how the cat-and-mouse game ended. He had finally tracked them down. This was all his trickery.

‘Gideon?’ she called out.

Nothing answered, except the distant tapping of friable wings against unyielding glass.

‘Gideon, I know it’s you. One of your mind-tricks, is it? Very well done. You have quite bewitched me and lured me here.’

Still no answer, and no familiar tremble of psykanic power at the edges of her thoughts.

‘I expect you have brought me here to answer questions,’ she said to the darkness. ‘To interrogate me. Who will do that, Gideon? You? Or will it be Kys or dear Kara? You must know, Gideon, that I will not give him up. Not Gregor, not any of them. You have caught me at long last, and you may treat me cruelly to get at his secrets, but I will not betray him, not now or ever.’

More oppressive quiet answered her, almost silence, save for the tapping of wings and flutter of leaves. The sounds made her shudder. Was that his approach? Psychological torment designed to exploit her deepest and most private phobia?

‘You have caught me, Gideon, you have bound me. But I will not betray him. Show yourself, and be done with these theatrics.’

Still no answer. She got up. She looked at the books lining the shelves around her. Here were more sadistic games. A copy of The Lies of Slyte. A slender, miserably rotting volume called The Strange Demise of Titus Endor. A Life of Pontius Glaw. A treatise called On The Malus Codicium. A trim chapbook called Nathun Inshabel On Elvira Cardinal. Another, The Lives and Deaths of the Alizebeth Bequins.

And here, a book bound in black leather and embossed in gold.

An Account of the Doom of the Heretic Gregor Eisenhorn, and Also of the Rogue Gideon Ravenor.

This… this was not his doing. It couldn’t be. It was too spiteful, too unkind, even for Gideon at his most determined. Medea knew him of old. She knew that he would not sink to such base intimidation, not if he expected her to deal with him. He had to know such mind games would only harden her resolve, not soften it.

The tapping grew louder. She turned, and flinched. The globe over the table had drawn more moths, dozens of them, grey as fruit-mould, fat and fur-bodied, and they circled the lamp frenetically, strumming their floury wings against its shade, fluttering wretchedly. They were large, larger than any she had ever seen, and that made her catch her breath. Fear, her old phobia, closed its hand around her heart.

There was a click, and the light went out. Darkness plunged in again. She could see nothing, but she could hear the moths milling furiously, blindly, lost now that their light source was gone. She felt things brush her cheek, felt wing-powder on her tongue, felt soft pinions feather and vibrate against her lips. She tried to cover her face and not scream at the same time. The tickle of wings was at her nostrils, and the flutter of leaves was in her ears, as if the things in the dark were trying to flutter and crawl into her skull. She stumbled back against the shelves, and heard dislodged books tumble and spill like a little landslide.

Then another click. Another light had come on, but this one was to her right, three rows away. She could see the globe shining between the bookshelves. The moths were suddenly gone, perhaps drawn by the glow.

She was breathing hard. Half-blind, she edged in the direction of the new light. More moths came with her, large and small, what seemed like scores of them tumbling and flickering towards the beams of light.

Medea reached the light, swiping moths away from her face in disgust. The lamp hung in another cleared reading area. There was a book propped on the table stand, but it had begun to rot with mildew and gluey slime, its pages crumpled limp and wet like the wings of a moth crushed underfoot. The text was unreadable. Moths, in alarming profusion, beat against the globe and crawled on its surface, twitching, rustling and shivering.

Medea backed away, her phobia almost choking her. In a moment, the light failed, darkness returned, and the air was full of wretched throbbing wings. A click, and another light came on, behind her, four rows away.

She blundered towards it headlong, barging books from the shelves on either side of her. Volumes, pamphlets and unbound manuscripts cascaded in her wake. The light hung in another little alcove, where two small tables had been pushed together to form a partners’ desk arrangement. The glow-globe was very dim, and cast only a dull, ruddy light in the space because of the sheer number of moths crawling and seething across its surface like a hideous, embroidered cover.

The light clicked off. Medea stood her ground, panting, brushing unseen whiskery forms off her face. She almost gagged. Another lamp came on. This was even further away, six rows deeper, a beacon beyond the silhouettes of book-laden shelves.

She paused. She tried to settle her wits.

The lights were leading her on. She was sure of it. They were not switching on and off at random. Each one shone, then shut off, and then another lit, in a zigzag pattern that was drawing her ever deeper into the maze of shelves, a constant promise of escape that led simply to more dismay.

She stared at the light, waiting for it to shut off, willing it to end its timed duration. It continued to glow. Moths spiralled past her in the twilight, purring madly and wildly towards the radiance.

She waited. The light did not turn off. It was going to keep shining, she realised, until she moved towards it. It was beckoning her. It was summoning her.

She stayed in place. The light continued to shine, daring her, taunting her.

She breathed hard in the close air, desperate to rid her lungs of the stale atmosphere, and fill them with the clear breeze of the yard that was still, she hoped, somewhere outside. This was not how she was going to end.

She straightened up. The light continued to burn.

She turned her back on it. With grim resolve, she walked away from the single light, and into the darkness of the stacks, feeling her way. The blackness consumed her. There was grit in her mouth. She could hear the threnody of frantic wings. The single light continued to shine behind her until, it seemed, it realised she was not going to come to it. It shut off, and another light snapped on somewhere to her left. She ignored it, and continued to blunder into the darkness. Books spilled from shelves as her fingers clawed into them.

The light lingered, then shut off. Another came on, to her right. She ignored that, too. She kept going, away from all light, and towards the blackness. The lamp shut off, as if annoyed and frustrated with her, then another came on, behind her, then it shut off and another took its place to her left again. When that failed to draw her, it switched off, and yet another lit up, deep in the maze of stacks to her right.

Medea ignored them all. She stumbled towards the place where there was no light, following the path of darkness. She could hear the tapping again, the feathery tapping, the bump-bump-bump of something knocking against a window pane. She followed the sound instead, trying to locate the source of the tapping, which sounded like an irregular, terrified heartbeat.

Then, she saw light ahead. It wasn’t a lamp or a glow-globe. It was a pale, cold smudge, scarcely visible. It was daylight, not the artificial radiance of a bulb.

She bumped into a stack, and heard it crash over against another, spilling an avalanche of books. She picked her way on, tripping on heaps of folios and octavos. The light was so faint she could barely see it. If she stared directly at it, it vanished. Only the sensitivity of her peripheral vision could detect its vague, ghost shimmer.

The tapping grew louder still. Her way was blocked, so she deliberately shoved a shelf unit aside, causing a huge collapse of tomes and splintered wood. Dust billowed up like woodsmoke. As it cleared, she could see the light properly at last. It was the shop’s grubby little window, looking out into the yard. She had found her way to the back of the window display, with only book-piles and trolleys between her and the glass. Something with ragged wings was fluttering and beating repeatedly against the inside of the glass. Like her, it was trying to find a way out of the shop, and into the light.

It was not a moth. It was far too large. It was fluttering up and down the window, knocking and knocking and knocking, beating its papery wings.

Medea dragged laden carts and trolleys out of her path, and dug her way through the piles of books that blocked her passage like a rockslip. She reached the window, sweeping the displayed books aside, wholesale. Through the thick, sooty glass, she could see out into Grammaticus Yard. She could see the stalls, the browsing customers. She could see the cats reclining in spots of sunlight. She could see Mam Tarding sorting her book crates. She could see the old dealer asleep beside his bubble pipe.

She tapped on the window. No one outside heard her, or looked her way. She began to beat against the glass with her fists, and yell for help. No one looked around. She was banging frantically against the old window, as mindlessly and pointlessly as a moth trying to chase the light. The glass did not break, or even shiver. She couldn’t crack it or smash through it. It was as hard and resilient as rock, or as hard as glass to a delicate insect. She hammered and shouted to no avail. The world outside continued in its own slow, quiet pace, unheeding.

The thing fluttering up and down the window dropped suddenly in front of her face. Medea yelped and jerked away from it, involuntarily swatting it aside with her hand. It tumbled, as though dead, onto the sill.

She stared at it. It lay amid the rind of dry, dead lepidoptera, its cover slightly parted like broken wings. It was a book, a small chapbook. It had somehow been alive and fluttering.

She picked it up. There was no title on the cover, and no words inside on the powdery leaves. Instead, there was a patterned print that ran across every page like marbling, a distorted, smudged pattern of ink that showed, simply, a face, like a blurred pict-capture taken in low light. A human face, screaming in dismay, repeated in slight variations on every page. If she had flicked the pages and rippled through them, it would have animated the image into one fluid, mechanical sequence of a face twisting to shriek in terror.

It was the likeness of Praed Belovoir.

In horror, she tossed it aside. It fell behind a pile of discarded books, lost to sight. She struck the window again, as hard as she could, but the glass refused to shatter.

But the window… the window was beside the shop’s little door. The door had to be just to her left, on the other side of the shelf that had blocked her access when she had first entered. She turned to it, and shoved at it. It refused to budge. She shoved harder, then maniacally pushed books off its shelves from behind, clearing enough of the shelves so that she could see the door, and the shop’s little entryway.

She began to grapple with the shelves, trying to rock them aside or topple them. More books fell off, but the shelf would not move. However, the lower shelves themselves were deep, made to accommodate larger volumes. She kicked and threw books, folios and quartos aside, scattering them behind her, then crouched down and began to squeeze herself, head first, between the shelves. The gap was tight. She could barely fit. The satchel across her shoulder snagged on something and anchored her fast. She almost tore the satchel off, and left it behind, but it unhooked suddenly and gave, and she slithered out onto the floor in front of the door. She lay panting for a minute on a carpet of strewn books. Motes of dust and paper fibres drifted in the heavy air. She got to her feet, unsteady, and brushed dirt off her black suit.

The door was locked. She shook it, and put her shoulder to it, but the lock mechanism had been engaged.

Medea stood for a moment, glaring at the brass lock. This was how the shop enticed its prey. It lured them in, deeper and deeper, following the lights, and then prevented them from ever leaving. She could not say why it preyed on them, or what appetite drove it, except that she was sure the warp was in it somehow. Nor could she say what fate befell its victims, other than to be trapped, moth-eaten and reduced to dust.

Or perhaps worse than that. Perhaps reduced to data, to paper and ink, all the memories and knowledge and information that made a person up distilled into a dry, dead chapbook that could do nothing except moulder, rot and decay in the eternal neglect.

Not her.

She took off her right glove, peeling away the red leather to expose the intricate, gleaming Glavian circuitry that inlaid her hand. She clasped the handle, made interlink contact with the security mechanism, and forced an override.

The mechanism disengaged with a loud click. The door unlocked.

Outside, the yard was quiet. The cats had all fled, for the sun had begun to set and the rare patches of sunlight had vanished. Some dealers had already shut up for the day, their stalls cleared and folded up, their awnings cranked back into the over-window recesses.

The door to M. Borgez’s premises had shut behind her, all on its own. It was pitch-dark inside the shop. She still had the strange gazetteer in her satchel, but she felt she had made payment enough. She hoped the book would prove of some use, though she thought it doubtful.

Medea walked away, across the yard, towards the steps to Tylass Row. She breathed deeply, drinking in the outdoor air. It was polluted, and soiled with the exhaust fumes and stove smoke of the old city, but it tasted fresh and clean to her. The undertows of time that lapped Queen Mab flowed especially deeply in the dark yards of the Remainders, and in the little labyrinth shop on Grammaticus Yard, they were the most treacherous of all.

All around, the leaves of books left out on the stalls rustled in the breeze like moth-wings, but her fear was behind her.

She did not look back. She never went back.

And even if she had, the shop was never there again.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Robert Rath is a freelance writer from Honolulu who is currently based in Hong Kong. He is the author of the Black Library novel The Infinite and the Divine, and its companion short story ‘War in the Museum’. His other short stories include ‘The Freelancer’, ‘The Garden of Mortal Delights’ and the Assassinorum tales ‘Divine Sanction’, ‘Live Wire’ and ‘Iron Sight’.

Danie Ware is the author of the novellas The Bloodied Rose, Wreck and Ruin, The Rose in Anger and the short story ‘Mercy’, all featuring the Sisters of Battle. She lives in Carshalton, South London, with her son and two cats, and has long-held interests in role-playing, re-enactment, vinyl art toys and personal fitness.

Mike Brooks is a science fiction and fantasy author who lives in Nottingham, UK. His work for Black Library includes the Warhammer 40,000 novels Rites of Passage and Brutal Kunnin, the Necromunda novel Road to Redemption and the novella Wanted: Dead, and various short stories. When not writing, he plays guitar and sings in a punk band, and DJs wherever anyone will tolerate him.

Denny Flowers is the author of the Necromunda novel Fire Made Flesh, the short story ‘The Hand of Harrow’ and the novella Low Lives. He lives in Kent with his wife and son.

Rich McCormick is a writer and videogame producer whose love affair with the worlds of Warhammer began when he was handed a small plastic ork at a very tender age. He used to live in Japan, but now he lives in Yorkshire, with his wife and son. ‘Knife Flight’ is his first story for Black Library.

Rob Young is a copywriter and graphic designer from Lancashire. When he’s not reading or writing, you’ll find him working on his latest Warhammer project. ‘The Roar of the Void’ is Rob’s first story for Black Library.

Tom Toner is the author of the critically acclaimed space opera trilogy the Amaranthine Spectrum, and The Beasts of Lake Oph. He was born in Somerset, England in 1986. ‘Outpost’ is his first story for Black Library.

David Annandale is the author of the Warhammer Horror novel The House of Night and Chain and the novella The Faith and the Flesh, which features in the portmanteau The Wicked and the Damned. His work for the Horus Heresy series includes the novels Ruinstorm and The Damnation of Pythos, and the Primarchs novels Roboute Guilliman: Lord of Ultramar and Vulkan: Lord of Drakes. For Warhammer 40,000 he has written Ephrael Stern: The Heretic Saint, Warlord: Fury of the God-Machine, the Yarrick series, and several stories involving the Grey Knights, as well as titles for The Beast Arises and the Space Marine Battles series. For Warhammer Age of Sigmar he has written Neferata: Mortarch of Blood and Neferata: The Dominion of Bones. David lectures at a Canadian university, on subjects ranging from English literature to horror films and video games.

Noah Van Nguyen is a writer of speculative fiction who lives and works in Vietnam. After a stint in the military, he tried his hand at translating, copywriting and teaching English. He intends to keep writing fiction as long as the coffee keeps flowing, which his wife has promised is never-ending. This has so far turned out to be true and the matter is now pending Inquisitorial investigation. His work for Black Library includes the short stories ‘Vova’s Climb’ and ‘No Third Chance’.

Victoria Hayward is a trained historitor who spent her youth serving as an acolyte in a Games Workshop store. She writes about black holes and the palaces of despots in her day job as a science communicator and her favourite corners of the 40K universe are those occupied by the Inquisition – which is all of it. She resides in Nottingham where she keeps birds and practises printmaking.

Dan Abnett has written over fifty novels, including Anarch, the latest instalment in the acclaimed Gaunt’s Ghosts series. He has also written the Ravenor, Eisenhorn and Bequin books, the most recent of which is Penitent. For the Horus Heresy, he is the author of the Siege of Terra novel Saturnine, as well as Horus Rising, Legion, The Unremembered Empire, Know No Fear and Prospero Burns, the last two of which were both New York Times bestsellers. He also scripted Macragge’s Honour, the first Horus Heresy graphic novel, as well as numerous Black Library audio dramas. Many of his short stories have been collected into the volume Lord of the Dark Millennium. He lives and works in Maidstone, Kent.

An extract from Vaults Of Terra: The Carrion Throne.

Say nothing, listen with utmost care,’ he said. ‘You understand me. You are in danger – you know this. You can see the tools against the far wall. But do not look at them. Look at me.’

The speaker held the man’s staring eyes with his own, which were deep grey and did not blink.

‘I brought you here following testimony from those who know you,’ he said. ‘They came to me, and I am bound to listen. Their words have been recorded. You can see them on the tabletop, those volumes there. No, do not look at them either. Look at me. You are afraid. If you let it turn your mind, it will be the end of you, so I will ask you to remember that you are a human being, a master of your passions. When I ask you a question, you will need to answer it, and if you do not speak the truth, I will know. The truth is all I desire. You have one chance left, so hold on to it. Hold on to it. Clutch it. Never deviate from it. Do you understand what I am telling you?’

The man before him tried to do as he was bid. He tried to hold his interrogator’s gaze, to keep his hands from shaking uncontrollably, and that was difficult. He looked ill, he stank. Two days in a cell, listening to the screams filtering up from the levels below, would do that to you.

He couldn’t reply. His scab-latticed lips twitched, but the words would not come. He shivered, twitching, fingers flexing, unable to do what was asked of him.

His interrogator waited. He was used to waiting. He had overseen a thousand sessions on a hundred worlds, so giving this one a little more time would serve well enough. He sat back in his fine orlwood chair, pressed his hands together and rested his chin on the apex of his armoured fingers.

‘Do you understand me?’ he asked again.

The man before him tried to answer again. His face was ashen, just like all lowborn faces on Terra – Throneworld-grey, the pallor of a life lived under the unbroken curtain of tox-clouds.

‘I…’ he tried. ‘I…’

The questioner waited. A thick robe hung from his armoured shoulders, lined with silver death’s heads at the hem. His hair was slicked back from a hard-cut face, waxed to a high sheen. His nose was hooked, his jawline sharp. Something faintly reptilian lingered over those features, something dry, patient and unbreaking.

Over his chest lay the only formal badge of his office – a skull-form rosette of the Ordo Hereticus, fashioned from iron and pinned to the trim of the cloak. It was a little thing, a trifle, barely larger than the heart stone jewel of an amulet, but in that rosette lay dread, hard-earned over lifetimes.

The bound man could not drag his gaze away from it, try as he might. It was that, more than the instruments which hung in their shackles on the rust-flecked wall, more than the odour of old blood which rose from the steel floor, more than the scratch-marked synthleather bonds, that held him tightly in his metal chair.

The inquisitor leaned forwards, letting polished gauntlets drop to his lap. He reached down to the belt at his waist and withdrew a long-barrelled revolver. The grip was inlaid ivory, the chamber adorned with a rippling serpent motif. He idly swung the cylinder out, observed the rounds nestled within, then clicked the chamber back into place. He pressed the tip of the muzzle against his subject’s temple, observing a minute flinch as the cool steel rested against warm flesh.

‘I do not wish to use this,’ the inquisitor told him, softly. ‘I do not wish to visit any further harm upon you. Why should I? The Emperor’s realm, infinite as it is, requires service. You are young, you are in passable health. You can serve, if you live. One more pair of hands. Such is the greatest glory of the Imperium – the toil of uncountable pairs of hands.’

The man was shaking now, a thin line of drool gathering at the corner of his mouth.

‘And I would not waste my ammunition, by choice,’ the inquisitor went on. ‘One bullet alone is worth more than you will ever accumulate. The shells are manufactured on Luna by expert hands, adept at uncovering and preserving the things of another age, and they know the value of their art. This is Sanguine, and none but two of its kind were ever made. The twin, Saturnine, has been lost for a thousand years, and has most likely been un-made. And so, consider – would I prefer to use it on you, and cause this priceless thing some small harm, or would I rather that you lived and told me all you know, and allowed me to put it back in its holster?’

The man didn’t try to look at the gun. He couldn’t meet the gaze of the inquisitor, and so stared in panic at the rosette, blinking away tears, trying to control his shivering.

‘I… told you…’ he started.

The inquisitor nodded, encouragingly. ‘Yes, you did. You told me of the False Angel. I thought then that we might get to the truth, so I let you talk. Then your fear made you dumb, and we were forced to start again. Perhaps everything you have told me was a lie. See now, I am used to those. In my every waking hour I hear a lie from a different pair of lips. Lies are to me like teardrops – transparent and short-lived. If you lie to me again, I will perceive it, and Sanguine will serve you. So speak. Speak now.’

The man seemed to crumple then, as if a long-maintained conflict within him had broken. He slumped in his bonds, and his bloodshot eyes drifted away from the rosette.

‘I made an… error,’ he murmured, haltingly. ‘You know it. You knew from the start. A mistake.’ He looked up, briefly defiant. ‘A mistake! See, how was I to know? They spoke of the things that priests speak of. I was confused, in my mind.’ Once the words started to come, they spilled out fast, one after another, propelled by fear. ‘It is hard, you know? To live, to… carry on living. And then someone comes and tells you that there’s another way. There’ll be rations – better than we have now. More hab-units, given to those that need them. And they’ll stop the killings, down in the underhive. They’ll send arbitrators down there, and they’ll stop the ones that hunt us. You know that we’re hunted? Of course you do. They find the bodies all the time, and no one does anything – they never have. So I listened to that, and I knew it was wrong, somehow, and that our only protector dwells on the Throne, but he’s here, the Angel, now, and he listens, and I go to listen to what his preachers tell us. And if they gave us instructions to store supplies or carry weapons, then I did it because I wanted to believe. And I did. Throne save me, but I did.’

‘Slower,’ warned the inquisitor, dragging the muzzle of his revolver down the man’s cheek and placing it closer to his lips. ‘Order your thoughts. I have seen the results of your work. I have seen corpses with terrible things done to them. I have seen blood on the walls, smeared in mockery of holy sigils. These are not the work of cutpurses. They are the work of heresy.’

‘No!’ The eyes went wide again with terrible fear. ‘You have it wrong!’

‘Most strange, how many who come here say that.’

‘It is true, lord, true. I know nothing of these… crimes, only that he told us we must arm against the dark, for no one else–’

‘Does anything. But now someone is doing something. I am doing something. I would like to do more. I would like to root this out.’

‘Yes, yes, you must root it out.’

‘Where do you meet?’

‘Malliax.’

‘You have told me this already. You know what I need. The place. The place where you went to hear these things.’

‘I do not…’ The fear returned. ‘I do not know the name. I cannot take you there.’

The inquisitor’s grey eyes narrowed by a fraction. His finger, finely armoured in dark lacquered plate, slipped away from the trigger, but he kept the barrel pressed against the man’s chin. For a long time the two of them looked at one another, one desperate, the other pensive.

‘See, now I believe you,’ the inquisitor said at last, withdrawing the gun and slipping the safety catch on.

The man took a sucked-in breath – until then, he had hardly dared to. He started to sweat again, and his trembling grew worse.

‘It’s true!’ he blurted, his voice cracking from fear. ‘It is true – I can’t take you there.’

The inquisitor sat back. ‘I know it,’ he said, easing the pistol back into its soft real-leather holster. ‘You are not foolish enough to lie to me. I could break you apart, here, now, and you could tell me no more than you have already.’ He flickered a dry smile. ‘Consider yourself fortunate you met me this day, rather than when I was a younger man. Then, I would have rendered you down to your elements to seek what you hide, just to be sure. Not now. I know when there is nothing left to find.’

The man did not relax. A different fear entered his eyes, one of new cruelty – a deception, one of the thousand that the agents of the Holy Inquisition knew and practised. There was no way out for him now – once a mortal man entered the black fortresses, that was the end. All knew that. Everyone.

‘I would tell you,’ he stammered, breaking down into tears, ‘if I could.’

The inquisitor rose from his chair, and his robes whispered around his ornate boots. Fine ceramite armour pieces slid across his body as he moved, each one as black as obsidian, each one edged with a vein of silver. His movements were precise, feline, barely audible despite the power feeds coiled tight inside every segment.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said.

‘Please,’ sobbed the man, slack in his bonds. ‘I would tell you.’

The inquisitor reached for the table on which the testimony parchment had been piled, and pressed a command bead. He looked over the scrolls absently – heaps of yellowed, scaly hides bearing the blood-brown scrawl of scholarly transcription, each one sealed with his own personal sigil of authority.

‘That is all I asked you,’ the inquisitor said, almost to himself. ‘You are free to go. You have done me some service, and you should reflect on that, when you are able, with pride. It is through loyal souls that we are able to do our work.’

The man stared at his interrogator, open-mouthed. Lingering suspicion played across his ravaged features.

The inquisitor glanced over towards him. ‘We’re not monsters. You have nothing more to tell me. If you recall more, you’ll come to me, I’m sure.’

The man began to believe. His eyes started to dart around – at his bonds, at the tools, at the barred door beyond. ‘Do you mean…?’

The inquisitor turned away, moved towards the door. As he approached it, thick iron bars slid from their housings and the armoured portal cracked open. A dull red light bled from the far side, snaking over the dark stone flags of the interrogation room. For a moment, the inquisitor was silhouetted by it, a spectral figure, gaunt and featureless.

‘All we wish for is the truth,’ he said.

Then he moved out into the long corridor beyond. The air was sterile, recycled down through the levels of the Inquisitorial fortress by old, wheezing machines. Black webs of damp caked the flagstones, and the filmy suspensor lumens flickered. An augmetic-encrusted servo-skull hovered down to the inquisitor’s shoulder, bobbing erratically and trailing a thin spinal tail behind it.

‘Hereticus-minoris,’ it clicked. ‘Phylum tertius. Tut, tut.’

At the end of the corridor, a man waited. He wore the thick-slabbed armour of a storm trooper captain, dun-grey, battle-weathered. His face was similarly seasoned, with a shadow of stubble over a blocked chin. His black hair was cropped close to the scalp, exposing tattooed barcodes and ordo battle-honours.

He bowed. ‘Lord Crowl,’ he said.

‘Something keeps him from talking, Revus,’ the inquisitor said. ‘A greater fear? Maybe loyalty. In either case, it is of interest.’

‘Will you break him?’

‘We learn more by letting him go. Assign a watch, mark his movements until you gain the location. I want him alive until then.’

‘It will be done. And afterwards?’

The inquisitor was already moving, his boots clicking softly on the stone as he made his way towards the next cell. ‘Termination,’ he said. ‘I’ll oversee, so keep it contained – I want to see where this leads.’

‘As you will it.’

The inquisitor hesitated before entering the next cell. The sound of panicked weeping could already be made out through the observation grille in the thick door. ‘But I did not ask you, Revus – how is your sergeant, Hegain? Recovered fully?’

‘Almost. Thank you for asking.’

‘Give him my congratulations.’

‘He will be honoured to have them.’

The servo-skull bobbed impatiently. ‘Numeroso. Dally not.’

The inquisitor shot the thing a brief, irritated look, then reached for the armour-lock on the cell door. As he did so, he summoned a ghost-schematic of the next subject’s file, which hovered for a second in an ocular overlay. Reading it, his lips tightened a fraction.

‘I will need my instruments for this one,’ Inquisitor Erasmus Crowl told Revus, then went inside.

Terra.

Holy Terra, marvel of the galaxy, heart of wonder. No jewel shone more brightly, no canker was more foul. At its nexus met the fears and glories of a species, rammed tight within the spires and the vaults, the pits and the hab-warrens. Spoil-grey, scored and crusted with the contamination and majesty of ten long millennia, a shrine world that glowed with a billion fires, a tomb that clutched its buried souls close. All the planet’s natural beauty had long since been scrubbed from its face, replaced by the layers upon layers of a single, creeping hyper-city. The sprawl blotted out the once-great oceans and the long-hewn forests under suffocating mountains of rockcrete and plasteel, tangled and decaying and renewed and rebuilt until the accretions stretched unbroken from the deepest chasms to the exalted heights.

No part of that world was free of the hand of man. Viewed from space, the planet’s night-shrouded hemisphere glittered with constellations of neon and sulphur, while its sunlit hemisphere gasped in a hot haze of pale grey. Its skies were clogged with voidcraft and lifters, packed with the manufactures and commodities that kept the teeming world from starving itself. With those commodities came living bodies – pilgrims by the million, products of a migration that never ended, bringing souls from across the vastness of space whose only wish was to live long enough to reach the sacred precincts of the Palace itself; to somehow endure the crowds and the hardship and the myriad predators that circled them for just one glimpse, even the smallest, of the golden towers portrayed in the Ecclesiarchy vid-picts, before they died in rapture.

So few made it. Most died on the warp journey, either of old age or through the loss of their ships in the void. Those who reached the solar system waited for years in the processing pens on Luna, then the vast orbital stations within sight of the planet below. It was said that a man could be born, live and die within those cavernous holding centres, all while his documentation worked its way tortuously through the offices of scribes and under-scribes. Often it would be lost, sometimes stolen, a mere speck amid the avalanche of parchment folios that fuelled the administrative machinery of the Imperium’s sclerotic heart.

And yet, those few who by luck or the will of the Emperor made it to the sacred soils of humanity’s birthworld still numbered in the millions, such was the fecundity of the eternal pilgrimage. Like the forgotten tides of Old Earth, the flow waxed and waned, governed by the great festivals of the Ministorum, the feasts of the saints and the Lords of Terra. And of all the sacred days ordained for the masses to partake in, by far the most sacred was the remembrance of the Angel – Sanguinala, the Red Feast, the Festival of the Blessed Sacrifice. On that day, once every solar year, the numbers swelled beyond reason, and the pilgrims crammed like cattle into the feeder stations, clawing at the gates and screaming at the guards to let them in. The most exalted of all, so they said, would be permitted to approach the Eternity Gate itself, to witness the rites of remembrance performed on the site of the Angel’s legendary stand as the feast reached its frenetic climax.

Now Sanguinala was just a week away, and the canyons of Terra’s world-city were already bursting. Every looping thoroughfare and crumbling causeway was swollen with a living carpet of supplicants, chanting the rituals, swaying in unison, moving with the inexorable purpose of an invading army towards the cavernous maws of the Outer Palace itself. Over them all hung the attack craft of the Adeptus Arbites, the black-clad judges, more watchful than ever for the bad seeds hidden among the multitudes. Every passing hour saw them swooping into the throngs, dragging out a ranting disciple or witch-in-potentia and bundling them into the crew-bays of their hovering scrutiny-lifters.

The air was hot. Frenzy gripped the megapolis, and supplicants went mad amid the dust. Looming above the lesser towers, massive beyond imagination, the titanic walls of the Outer Palace soared in tarnished splendour, waiting for the inundation to crash against their flanks.

Interrogator Luce Spinoza watched those walls now, their outline half-lost in the haze of morning. The parapets were over fifty kilometres away, but still they dominated the northern horizon, as imposing as the mountains had been that now served as their foundations.

She stood before a floor-to-ceiling crystalflex window set atop the highest level of a spire’s crown, over a kilometre up, just one of thousands of towers that jostled and crammed the cityscape in all directions. Away in the east, the dim light of the world’s sun tried to pierce the ever-drifting clouds of smog, casting a weak and dirty light across the steel and adamantium.

Spinoza had never laid eyes on the Palace before. To witness the holy site, even from such a distance, gave her a kind of vertigo. Somewhere within, she knew, buried deep inside that man-made continent, He endured. The thought of it was enough to make her weep for the sacrifice, as she had done, many times.

Spinoza was so lost in contemplation that the soft approach of her superior went unnoticed. On another day she might have been given penance for the lapse, but Adamara Rassilo understood the occasion, and made no note.

‘You never get used to it,’ Rassilo said, coming to stand beside her. ‘Seeing it unfiltered, knowing what it holds.’

Spinoza bowed to her. ‘I can only imagine, lord.’

Inquisitor-Lord Rassilo wore armour of deep crimson marked with the fleur-de-lys of her allied Chambers Militant. Her hair was olive green, sheer and close-cut, exposing a smooth face that gave away no determinate sign of age. Her rosette was a pearl-ringed jewel, at first glance as clear as glass, but which on closer inspection reflected the icon of an Inquisitorial skull from within its depths.

‘How was the journey?’ Rassilo asked.

The journey had been hell. Nine warp stages from the outer edge of Segmentum Solar, all taken in a battle-damaged ordo frigate with a depleted crew and an astropath who had gone mad on the run from Priax.

‘It was fine,’ Spinoza said. ‘I am glad to be here.’

‘And we are glad to have you. So, come, let us speak.’

Rassilo turned away from the viewing portal. Her chamber was large and luxuriously appointed. A patterned marble floor, worth a governor’s stipend alone, underpinned an artful arrangement of Vandire-era furnishing, most fashioned from genuine organics and only a few betraying the telltale of synthesis. Wax candles flickered in wrought-iron holders, augmenting the always-weak daylight from the windows.

Rassilo gestured towards a chair for Spinoza, and the two of them sat opposite one another, framing a holo-fireplace that cracked and spat in an antique grate. Rassilo clicked her fingers and a diminutive dwarf-servitor scuttled to her side, arms stuffed with reams of parchment. The dead-eyed creature handed one to her, burbled something, then wobbled away.

‘Interrogator Luce Spinoza,’ read Rassilo, leafing through the file. ‘Admitted from Schola Progenium Astranta under the watch of Inquisitor Tur. Initial actions performed with commendation. Graduated to Explicator under Tur’s tutelage, before his lamented death on Karalsis Nine. Thence several further appointments – I will not list them all. Notable attachment with the Adeptus Astartes.’ She looked up at Spinoza. ‘The Imperial Fists, eh? How did you find them?’

Spinoza remembered every moment. They had been perfection to her, the very embodiment of His divine will. They had accepted her, too, in the end, and the alliance had been fruitful – so much so that Chaplain Erastus had gifted her his crozius arcanum, Argent, when they parted after the successful reduction of Forfoda, an honour beyond words. Even now, five years later, the gesture still humbled her.

‘They were true servants,’ she said, with feeling.

‘And dangerous ones,’ said Rassilo. ‘No world knows that more than this one. But it is good you are returned. The Throneworld has need of witch hunters. There are never enough.’

Spinoza stiffened. Returning to the heart of the Imperium had never been her plan – the void was where the true war was. And yet, in Tur’s absence, there was no resisting orders from the centre, for she was not inquisitor yet, and she had always known another mentor would be found for her.

‘No greater honour exists,’ she said, and that was truthful enough.

Rassilo nodded. ‘You’ve seen the state of things. This world is invaded every hour in greater numbers than our enemies could ever muster. Think on that. Every single pilgrim is screened, and screened again, but it can never be enough. All are suspect, all are dangerous, and if taint is suffered to flourish here, then we are lost.’

‘I yearn only to serve again.’

Rassilo closed the file and laid it on her lap. ‘You’ve been asked for by the Inquisitor Erasmus Crowl – do you know the name?’

Spinoza shook her head.

‘Perhaps not the master I would have chosen for you, but I cannot refuse him. He has been here too long, alone, but no servant of the Throne is more dedicated. He will drive you hard, in his own way, but he is fair, and you will learn much if your ears and eyes stay open.’

Spinoza’s expression never flickered. She remembered the killing fields of Forfoda, the glory of the Space Marines: unstoppable, a living wall of gold set against the parapets of faithlessness.

‘What does he require of me?’ she asked.

‘He has no retinue,’ said Rassilo. ‘For years he never demanded one. Now he wishes for an acolyte. Why? I do not know. It is his right, though, and I suppose he judges your qualities will balance his own.’

‘I will learn what I can.’

Rassilo smiled. ‘You need not hide your feelings, interrogator. This station will not last forever. Acquit yourself well here, and there are those in the ordo who will notice.’

‘My apologies, I did not mean–’

‘You are young, you have ambition.’ Rassilo clicked her fingers again. ‘Your time will come. In the meantime, let me make your path a little easier.’ The dwarf-servitor waddled back into the room, this time towards Spinoza. In its chubby grey hands was another file, bound with snapwire and sealed with a thick dollop of wax. The servitor held it up and gazed at Spinoza with a vacant, dumbly sorrowful expression.

Spinoza took the file. It was marked in the ordo routine cipher: Crowl, E., O.H. 4589-643.

‘Read it,’ said Rassilo. ‘It will assist your introduction.’

Spinoza looked up at her. ‘Is this…’ she started. ‘Does he know?’

‘I doubt it.’ Rassilo leaned forwards in her chair. Her armour-plates were artfully made, and moved like folds of fabric around her. ‘Consider it a gift made in recognition of sacrifice. This is Terra, child – one gift given, another returned.’

Spinoza looked down at the file, and ran her finger down its spine. The servitor stalked off again, its bare grey feet tottering across the wooden floor.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

Rassilo waved that away. ‘I appreciate your vision of service. We talk and talk – puritans, radicals, whatever that means – but ignore the real divisions. We need those whose blood is hot.’

Rassilo rose from her seat, and Spinoza followed suit. The interview was at an end. The two of them walked to the door, Rassilo ahead, Spinoza following. Before taking leave, Rassilo embraced her formally, then studied her a final time.

‘There are many battlefields, interrogator,’ she said. ‘This is just another one – just as deadly, just as noble. Remember that.’

Spinoza nodded.

‘I will,’ she said.

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