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More tales of the Astra Militarum from Black Library

• CIAPHAS CAIN •
by Sandy Mitchell

Book 1: FOR THE EMPEROR

Book 2: CAVES OF ICE

Book 3: THE TRAITOR’S HAND

Book 4: DEATH OR GLORY

Book 5: DUTY CALLS

Book 6: CAIN’S LAST STAND

Book 7: THE EMPEROR’S FINEST

Book 8: THE LAST DITCH

Book 9: THE GREATER GOOD

Book 10: CHOOSE YOUR ENEMEIES

OMNIBUS: HERO OF THE IMPERIUM
(Contains books 1-3 in the series: For the Emperor, Caves of Ice and The Traitor's Hand, as well as the short stories 'Fight or Flight', 'Echoes of the Tomb' and 'The Beguiling')

OMNIBUS: DEFENDER OF THE IMPERIUM
(Contains books 4-6 in the series: Death or Glory, Duty Calls and Cain’s Last Stand, as well as the short story 'Traitor’s Gambit')

OMNIBUS: SAVIOUR OF THE IMPERIUM
(Contains books 7-9 in the series: The Emperor's Finest, The Last Ditch and The Greater Good, as well as the short story 'Old Soldiers Never Die')

• GAUNT’S GHOSTS •
by Dan Abnett
Colonel-Commissar Gaunt and his regiment, the Tanith First and Only, struggle for survival on the battlefields of the far future.

THE FOUNDING
(Contains books 1-3 in the series: First and Only, Ghostmaker and Necropolis)

THE SAINT
(Contains books 4-7 in the series: Honour Guard, The Guns of Tanith, Straight Silver and Sabbat Martyr)

THE LOST
(Contains books 8-11 in the series: Traitor General, His Last Command, The Armour of Contempt and Only in Death)

Book 12 – BLOOD PACT

Book 13 – SALVATION’S REACH

Book 14 – THE WARMASTER

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Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer 40,000

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Notes

About the Author

An Extract from ‘The Horusian Wars: Incarnation’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of His inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that He may never truly die.

Yet even in His deathless state, the Emperor continues His eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

Editorial Note:

As is usual with my periodic attempts to impose order on the autobiographical ramblings of Ciaphas Cain concerning an incident in which I was involved, I have resisted the temptation to interpolate any comments of my own[1] regarding the events which he describes. I’ve also resisted the temptation to correct his impressions where they diverge from mine since, as in the previous volumes of his reminiscences, Cain remains a reasonably objective observer – not only of events, but also of his own reactions to them, which, as ever, he persists in casting in the least flattering of lights.

One of the supplementary sources I’ve been forced to quote from in an attempt to fill the lacunae left by his habitual disregard of anything which didn’t affect him personally is the published memoirs of the celebrated Lady General Jenit Sulla, who at the time was serving in a far less exalted position in the regiment to which Cain was attached.

As ever, I’ve endeavoured to leave Cain’s original wording as close to how I found it as possible, other than correcting a few ambiguities of syntax to clarify his meaning, and breaking up the original somewhat indigestible mass of text into chapters for ease of reading. Any errors thereby introduced are my responsibility alone; the rest are entirely Cain’s.

Amberley Vail, Ordo Xenos.

One

The thing I’ve always found most annoying about the eldar, apart from their psychotic sadism[2] and their almost visible aura of patronising smugness, is their habit of popping up where you least expect them. Like the ones who came charging out of the depths of the mine workings on Drechia, for instance, laying down a lethal spread of razor-edged discs from their small-arms as they came. Within seconds, half the troopers with me were down, either diced so thoroughly the burial party was going to need buckets to collect them in, or incapacitated beyond the point of any form of retaliation apart from harsh language.

Not wishing their sacrifice to have been in vain, I lost no time in diving for cover behind a comfortingly solid-seeming outcrop of rock. Once there, I snapped off a couple of shots from my laspistol in the general direction of the enemy, trying to ignore the little sparks left by ricocheting shuriken which seemed far too close to my nose for comfort while I did so.

‘Where in the warp did they come from?’ Lieutenant Grifen snarled, more rhetorically than because she really expected an answer.

‘Who cares? They’re dying right here,’ Magot, her platoon sergeant and closest friend, returned, lobbing a frag grenade at the first group of Guardians to have broken cover as she spoke. It burst in the middle of them, and the two closest promptly went down, crimson trickles leaking through the newly punched rents in their green-and-purple armour.

The surviving members of Grifen’s command squad were already returning fire with their lasguns, picking off the rest of the xenos who’d been incautious enough to attempt to try following up their initial advantage by closing to chainsword distance. A big mistake if you wanted my opinion, which I doubted the pointy-ears did; they’d obviously counted on the element of surprise to overwhelm us completely, before charging home against dazed and disorientated soldiers in no fit state to defend themselves. Which might well have worked against the local militia rabble who’d been trying to contain their raids up until now, but unfortunately for them, what they got instead was battle-hardened Imperial Guard veterans who dived for cover the moment the shooting started, and immediately began giving as good as they got. But that was the 597th for you; I’d been fighting alongside them for the last couple of decades, and seen them take on pretty much anything the galaxy had to throw at us. A handful of overconfident eldar would hardly make them break sweat.

Grifen tapped her comm-bead. ‘Second and fifth squads, circle back. We’re under fire,’ she voxed, before turning to me for approval. ‘With any luck they’ll catch them from behind, and we can take out the lot between us.’

‘Good thinking, lieutenant,’ I said, keeping my voice conversational with the ease of a lifetime’s practice at concealing visible signs of panic. She hadn’t been an officer for long, and I suspected she was still harbouring doubts about her ability to manage a whole platoon instead of a single squad. But the strategy seemed perfectly sound to me, if I remembered the layout of the tunnels around here correctly.[3] ‘But right now I’m wondering how they got here in the first place.’

And, more importantly, whether there were any more where these ones had come from. Needless to say I’d never have been anywhere near the place if I’d thought there was a chance of running into serious opposition, which was why I’d decided to accompany Grifen’s platoon that day: if anyone asked, I was there to see how she was getting on with her new command and provide any help she might need in adjusting to her greater responsibilities. In actual fact it was because I’d got heartily tired of the eldar’s fondness for sudden aerial attacks, which had seen me dodging strafing runs by the one-man speeders our troopers referred to as jetbikes, despite the obvious lack of either jets or wheels,[4] almost from the moment of our arrival. Not to mention the aircraft, which – though mercifully few – we lacked sufficient Hydras to defend against effectively, and which accordingly were left free to maraud almost at will. Since aerial assets were strikingly ineffective down holes in the ground I’d jumped at the chance to tag along with the group sent to check the tunnels for any sign of enemy infiltration, only to find that, not for the first time, I’d become the butt of one of the Emperor’s little jokes.

‘There’s nothing on the auspex,’ Magot said, with a glance at the unit she’d pulled from one of her webbing pouches, but that hardly came as a surprise. With all the ore, and the rock it was embedded in, surrounding us, its range would be limited at best. ‘We’ll have to do this the hard way.’ Which tended to be her preferred option in any case. She gestured towards the tunnel mouth in front of us. ‘Get in there and flush them out.’

‘If there are any left down there to flush,’ I said, already certain that there would be. In my experience, enemies only came in two quantities: too many and far too many.

And far too many was what we’d been facing here for more than a month.

The eldar had first appeared on Drechia a couple of years ago, in relatively small numbers to begin with, grabbing a consignment of freshly dug merconium[5] before vanishing as suddenly as they’d arrived. The planetary defence force was predictably slow and ineffectual in their response to the initial incursion,[6] with the inevitable result that the raiders returned in ever increasing numbers. The planetary governor had believed the assurances of whichever members of her extended family were in charge of the local defence forces that they were able to cope, despite their complete lack of understanding of military matters, with the inevitable result that, by the time the Imperial Guard were called in to clean up the mess, the xenos were rampaging about the place pretty much as they pleased.

Which meant that the 597th and I had been diverted from our planned return to Coronus,[7] and landed with the unenviable task of attempting to put a bit of backbone into the defence of the place. A proper task force would have been a far better option, but with the tyranids encroaching ever deeper into the gulf, the resources required to assemble one in a hurry simply weren’t available, and until they were we’d just have to do the best we could on our own.

I’d complained about it, of course, not expecting anyone to take a blind bit of notice, and – to my complete lack of surprise – no one had; one of the definite downsides of my absurdly inflated reputation was the average Munitorum flunkey’s apparently unshakable belief that the mere fact of my presence would guarantee victory whatever the circumstances. So, with the orders confirmed, there was nothing else for it but to get on with the job and try to keep my head down as usual.

‘It’s not going to be easy,’ I said as the door closed behind the Administratum drone, who’d departed with almost unseemly haste after delivering the briefing documents, which, as usual, I hadn’t the slightest intention of bothering to read. I glanced through the armourcrys viewport along the length of the void station’s docking arm, to where our troop ship, the encouragingly named Indestructible IV,[8] was partially visible behind the bulk of an Armageddon-class battle cruiser which – judging by the rents in its hull plating – had recently been on the wrong end of a necron lightning arc. ‘We’ve got an entire planet to protect, and just one regiment to do it with.’

‘Technically, it’s not really a planet,’ Major Broklaw said, glancing up from one of the data-slates the scribe had left, already getting on with the job of ploughing through the verbiage so Colonel Kasteen and I could benefit from his much more succinct and useful summary – one of the habits which made him such an effective executive officer. ‘It’s a large moon. One of a dozen inhabited ones, orbiting an isolated gas giant.’

‘So we’ll be tunnel fighting,’ I said, feeling a cautious surge of optimism. For an old underhiver like me, that was pretty much as good as it got, if you ignored the ‘murderous xenos trying to kill you’ part. An environment I felt completely at home in, knew better than the enemy, and dark enough to find somewhere to hide without anyone noticing if things went seriously ploin-shaped.

Broklaw shook his head. ‘It’s a really big gas giant. More of a protostar, really.’

‘The moons are warm, then?’ Kasteen picked up another of the data-slates, and called up a pict of the surface of Drechia. My heart contracted, along with my stomach.

‘Warm enough for us,’ Broklaw said happily, gazing at the snowfields and glaciers as though they were a gift from the Emperor. Which, for a Valhallan, they probably were. ‘Drechia’s an iceworld.’

‘That’ll make a change,’ Kasteen said happily. These days her red hair had a dusting of white in it, despite a juvenat treatment or two (which, I’m bound to say, was equally true of Broklaw and myself, except that his was still predominantly black, and mine the same nondescript hue it had always been beneath the speckling), but the cheery prospect of mucking about in bone-freezing temperatures which could kill an unprotected man in a matter of moments made her look a decade or two younger at once. ‘And the troopers will be happy.’

‘That they will,’ I agreed, taking a closer look at the data-slate despite myself. As I’d expected, the Adeptus Mechanicus had been busy in the first few centuries of colonisation, thickening the atmosphere and warming it up from unliveable to merely lethal, not just on Drechia, but on many of the other local bodies too. ‘What about the rest of the system?’

‘Nothing we need to worry about,’ Broklaw assured us. ‘The protostar and its satellites are independent of the rest of it. They have their own governor, Administratum and infrastructure.’

I skimmed through the relevant pages, my eyes and synapses ricocheting from the dense columns of population and tithing statistics like a bullet from an ogryn’s skull, and nodded as if I’d grasped the fundamentals as quickly as he had. ‘Makes sense,’ I said. ‘It’s just like a miniature solar system on its own, stuck out near the halo.[9] Running things from Ironfound would be a logistical nightmare.’

‘That it would,’ Broklaw agreed, calling up a diagram of the system as a whole. The hive world around which everything else orbited (administratively speaking) was less than a quarter of the way out from the star at the centre of things, the vast majority of inhabited worlds, moons and asteroids petering out no more than an equal distance beyond that; only a few isolated void stations or chunks of worthless rock punctuated the vast gulf between their outliers and the protostar, which, for all practical purposes, might just as well have been in another system entirely. ‘Even a vox transmission would take a couple of hours to get there, let alone ships.’

I nodded. ‘Month or more, probably,’ I said, mindful of my own long coast into Perlia aboard a saviour pod from a similar distance out, some thirty years before. Which was why we were being sent straight there; the rest of the Ironfound System was probably blissfully unaware of the eldar raiders harassing their distant neighbours, and unwilling to help against them even if they weren’t for fear of attracting the xenos’ attention.[10] We could be at least that long in the warp, of course, if the currents of that ocean of unreality happened to be flowing in the wrong direction, but at least we’d get the job done when we arrived – which is more than could be said for whatever dregs of the Ironfound planetary defence force the authorities there would be willing to get rid of. ‘Do we have a departure time yet?’

‘Twelve hours and counting,’ Broklaw said. ‘Should be long enough to get everything moved over to the freighter they’ve found for us, if we hustle.’ But his brow was furrowing even as he spoke, for which I couldn’t exactly blame him. Twelve hours might sound like a long time, but when you’ve got around four thousand troopers to herd, along with their vehicles, weapons, rations, ammunition, personal effects and the instruments of the regimental band, it can be eaten up hellishly fast, believe me. Especially when a double-figure percentage of them have already been granted permission to disperse among whatever diversions they can find on a pressurised ration can floating in several billion cubic kilometres of frak all.

‘I’ll get Sulla on it,’ Kasteen said, happy to pass the buck down the chain of command to her second most senior subordinate.[11]

‘Good choice,’ I agreed. Sulla had begun her career as a quartermaster, and retained a talent for logistics which made her positively relish a challenge like this. I rose, with the best show of reluctance I could feign. ‘And I suppose I’d better start rounding our people up. There can’t be too many bars and gambling dens on a void station this size.’ I still intended to make use of as many as possible before we left, though, especially as I now had a perfect excuse to make the rounds.

‘Good luck with that,’ Kasteen said. ‘I’ll send out a general recall message, but there are bound to be plenty who’ve switched off their vox-beads.’

‘Sounds like we’ve a busy night ahead of us,’ I said, which, although it turned out to be true, was as nothing compared to the job awaiting us on Drechia – which, in turn, was to pale into insignificance once the true nature and scale of the threat we were facing eventually became clear.

Editorial Note:

Since, as usual, Cain provides few details of the worlds he visits beyond the occasional complaint about whatever he regards as an inconvenience, the following may prove useful in filling in some of the more egregious gaps in his narrative.

From Interesting Places and Tedious People: A Wanderer’s Waybook by Jerval Sekara, 145 M39

The Ironfound subsystem is an interesting anomaly, and perhaps worth a degree of attention if passing through that region of the Imperium, although a prolonged sojourn there can hardly be recommended. The most that can be said for it is that the views of the subsystem primary, known to the locals as Avernus, are undeniably spectacular when seen from the surface of any of the worldlets in its orbit, although conditions on these bodies are sufficiently harsh to discourage all but the hardiest from lingering in the open air. The spectacle is thus better enjoyed from behind the armourcrys of a hostelry on the exterior of whichever hab cluster the discerning wayfarer is patronising, where it can be appreciated in comfort, with a libation of amasec to hand.

That said, the effort of finding one where the surrounding light sources are kept to a minimum will be amply repaid in the clearer view thus afforded, particularly if the subtle scintillations of the ring system are to be fully appreciated. Like the perpetual snows of the worldlets, they acquire a dull red cast from the emanations of Avernus, which appears to flicker[12] as it dominates roughly half the sky, creating the uncomfortable illusion that the entire globe is on fire.

Nevertheless, it remains bitterly cold, so much so that the vast majority of the population sensibly remain either in their sealed cities or toiling in the mines which riddle all the inhabited worldlets, relatively safe from the potentially lethal climate.

Which of the dozen or so worlds the passing wayfarer may choose to break their journey on matters little, since in all essential respects they are as dreary as one another.

Two

The few expectations I had of our new deployment were rapidly lived down to. Our shuttle hit the snow-covered surface of Drechia in a gout of steam, which turned slowly into a slick of glass-smooth ice across the landing pad, and I watched the world outside become gradually visible through the thinning mist beyond the viewport. About half my limited field of vision was occupied by the looming bulk of the hab cluster in the distance, beyond the starport periphery, a klom[13] or so in height and about thrice that across. In the other direction I could see nothing but snow, gathering in small, gust-driven drifts, smothering the cargo containers stacked in the lee of the starport buildings and blurring the outlines of a squadron of our Chimeras, which had just been offloaded from the previous shuttle down. The huge planet above us hung low to the horizon like a vast blood clot, tinting the whirling snowflakes with its own baleful hue, so that the whole scene reminded me more of a forge surrounded by drifting sparks than the blood-chilling temperatures I knew would be waiting for me the minute the pilot cracked the hatch.

‘I’ll fire up the Salamander.’ Jurgen, my malodorous and indispensable aide, rose from the seat next to mine with as close to alacrity as he ever got. True to form, he’d suffered through the atmospheric portion of our descent with stoic silence and eloquent aroma, and his eagerness to get his boot soles on terra firma was palpable.

‘Fine,’ I said, rising a little more slowly, and adjusting my cap to a more heroic seeming angle for the benefit of the troopers sitting behind us. The prospect of travelling in an open-topped scout vehicle in the sub-zero temperatures prevailing outside was distinctly unappealing. Then I caught another glimpse of the Chimeras growling away outside, and inspiration struck. ‘But it’ll take a while to get it out of the hold. I’ll hitch a lift in the command vehicle of the squadron outside, and get up to speed with the deployment on the way in.’

‘Very good, sir.’ My aide nodded judiciously, as though his approval had been sought, and adjusted the lasgun slung across his shoulder. ‘Do you want to pick up your kit first?’

‘No, just take it straight to my quarters,’ I said. ‘I’ll be reviewing tactics in the command centre for some time.’ Where it would be warm, at least by Valhallan standards, they’d have a pot of tanna brewing, and I could easily contrive a reason for having got a lift in with the Chimeras.

‘Would you like me to join you there?’ Jurgen asked, and after a moment’s consideration I nodded.

‘Yes, I would,’ I said, adding ‘whenever it’s convenient,’ to his evident satisfaction. Jurgen’s dogged loyalty and adherence to whatever he considered his duty had smoothed my path in innumerable ways over the years, and it never hurt to show my appreciation of that; not to mention the fact that if he didn’t feel particularly hurried, my quarters would be a lot more comfortable by the time I found my way to them.

The cold outside was, if anything, even worse than I’d anticipated, the air burning into my lungs as uncomfortably as the foetid atmosphere of a forge world, although considerably less lethal in the long run, I supposed. Not that the long run would be much of a consideration if I hung about on the landing pad for long; I could already feel the chill leaching the life from my bone marrow, everything else already too frozen to be aware of. Not that the troopers disembarking around me seemed too bothered by the lethally low temperature; on the contrary, they seemed in a holiday mood, laughing and chattering as they clattered down the ramp, a few of them turning their faces to the drifting snow as though luxuriating in a shower.

Conscious that if I didn’t get a move on I’d probably end up frozen to the ramp, I began plodding towards the command Chimera I’d spotted from inside the drop-ship, easily distinguishable from its fellows by the cluster of auspex arrays and vox-antennae mounted on its hull. Which took me out of the lee of the grounded shuttle – the freezing wind promptly redoubled, hitting me with the force of an ogryn’s fist, stabbing me with a million shards of windborne ice and wailing in my ears like a berserker charge of eldar banshees.

Which I suppose was my subconscious giving my well-developed sense of self-preservation a heads up. I’d known the xenos were on Drechia, of course – for some reason the vast majority of their depredations had been on that benighted worldlet – so the comparison was a natural one, but making it recalled their presence to mind, and that probably saved my life.[14] As the howling rose in pitch, I glanced upwards, catching a glimpse of three fast-moving dots partially obscured by the flurrying snow.

‘Incoming!’ I yelled, heedless of the eardrums of whoever was monitoring my comm-bead back in the command centre, hoping I could at least warn the troopers around me. Not that I needed to have bothered, as most of them were already unslinging their lasguns, no doubt far more used to distinguishing the sounds of an approaching threat through the whining of a blizzard than I was.

Finding that I could move fast after all despite the strength-sapping chill all around me, I sprinted for the command Chimera, desperate to get behind its protective armour plate before the incoming jetbikes could close to firing range. The thought of returning to the shuttle behind me flickered briefly across my mind, but the ramp was already beginning to rise, the pilot obviously too old a hand to risk being caught on the ground unprotected.

Then, with the roar of a powerful engine, the scout Salamander Jurgen had requisitioned burst out of the cargo hold, flying off the end of the steepening slope, almost getting caught in the narrowing gap as it cleared the ramp. A shower of sparks, eerily similar to the crimson-tinted snowflakes swirling around me, followed it as it grazed the lintel of the cargo hatch on its way through, and crashed to the ground with an impact which resonated through my boot soles, no doubt doing things to the sturdy little vehicle’s suspension that would have made an enginseer blaspheme had any seen it. Maybe some of them did, but I suspect that by then the attention of any in the immediate vicinity would have been thoroughly diverted by the eldar attack.

Three green-and-purple jetbikes came howling out of the storm, swooping on the landing field like raptors spotting a scurrying rodent, strafing the area with whirling discs of razor-edged lethality. The Valhallans scattered, seeking what cover they could, but the majority returned fire with their lasguns as soon as they found it. Apparently unpleasantly surprised by this,[15] the eldar broke off, and circled round for another approach. Turning my head to follow them, I suddenly found myself uncomfortably exposed: the Chimera I’d been heading for gunned its engine and moved away, followed by the rest of the squadron, manoeuvring to intercept the marauders before they could start shooting into the mass of troopers on foot again. That some of the raiders’ fire had found its mark couldn’t be doubted: here and there patches of ice seemed redder than could be accounted for entirely by the baleful glow of the gargantuan planet hanging low on the horizon, and one or two of the lumps in the drifting snow seemed disconcertingly human sized. To my distinct lack of surprise, the torso protruding from the turret of the command Chimera was topped by a familiar face with a vaguely equine cast of features, the pony tail trailing from the rear of her fur hat confirming her identity if I’d ever been in the slightest doubt: Sulla, ready as always to confront trouble head on without stopping to assess the consequences.

This time, however, after a moment of eavesdropping on her command channel through the comm-bead in my ear, I had to concede that she had a point. The heavy bolters in the armoured personnel carriers’ main turrets would be our best defence against the fast-moving aerial targets, although you’d need the Emperor’s own luck to take them all down. That said, she was using the assets she had to the best possible advantage, placing them on the fringes of the landing field to maximise their overlapping fields of fire.

Which would have been fine by me, except for the minor detail of being left in the middle of a vast open space with airborne hostiles circling it looking for a target. There wasn’t much chance of being singled out personally, with so many other people hunkering down and readying their weapons, but I’d been in action far too often not to be aware that a stray round can be just as dangerous as one aimed by a marksman.

With nothing better to do I drew my laspistol from its holster and crouched down in the snow, waiting for the chance to take a wild pot shot in the general direction of the enemy like everyone else, and minimising my profile to the best of my ability. It would take even more luck to down a jetbike with a las-bolt than with one of Sulla’s heavy bolters, but the sheer volume of incoming fire would be enough to keep them from getting too close; the response to their first attack certainly seemed to have given them pause, and repeating the lesson might even be enough to drive them away entirely. In my previous encounters with the pointy-ears they had shown themselves to be cunning and resourceful, ruthless, even bloodthirsty,[16] but with a healthy dose of self-preservation to temper that – a far cry from the unrelenting savagery of orks, or the t’au’s willingness to face certain death in the name of their greater good if sufficiently motivated. I aimed skywards, trying to track the nearest of the fast-moving dots, thankful for the augmetic fingers which steadied my aim a little despite the shivering shaking my body like a case of the ague. Much longer out here and the cold would finish me off before the eldar even got a chance.

Abruptly, without warning, the eldar stopped their circling and began to dive towards us, ignoring the hail of bolter rounds whipping past them on all sides, despite the best efforts of Sulla’s gunners. I listened to her typically clipped instructions and the rather more excited ones of the vehicle commanders for a moment before concluding that there was nothing to be gained by my intervention – and even if there had been there wouldn’t be much I could contribute with my jaw frozen shut – before steadying my aim as best I could, trying to keep one of the jinking flyers in my sights.

Of course, pistols aren’t meant for long-range shooting at the best of times,[17] and this was far from one of those. On the other hand, more than a hundred people shooting at a relatively small volume of space at the same time are almost bound to hit something, and I was pretty sure I saw a few impact flares as the howling flyers swooped nearer. Then one slipped sideways, a large and ragged hole ripped in its streamlined fairing by a couple of heavy bolter rounds. It slewed wildly in the air for a moment, its rider evidently fighting for control, then steadied and broke off, pulling away and gaining altitude.

A ragged cheer went up from the troopers around me, only to die away again as the remaining pair opened fire. With a kind of numb detachment I saw a line of snow and ice in front of me splinter into shards and crystals as the steady stream of spinning shuriken chewed into them before ricocheting away in a random direction, spreading death and injury in a widening wake behind the swooping jetbikes. None of which mattered in my case, because the line of fire was heading straight in my direction, and in a handful of seconds there would be nothing left of me except a rapidly expanding crimson mist and a rather battered cap. Reflexively I tried to stand and run, but my frozen body refused to respond, merely stirring sluggishly in something approximating the right direction.

Then an engine roared, stressed far beyond its design parameters, and the Salamander slewed sideways in front of me, Jurgen grinning down from the driver’s compartment. He ducked just in time as the hail of deadly discs spanged loudly from the hull plating, passing just over my head on its way to chew up more ice, snow and slow-moving Guardsmen.

‘Perfect timing as always, Jurgen,’ I said, hardly slurring my words at all, relying on our comm-beads to communicate, as I wasn’t sure I had the energy to shout even if I could have been heard over the growling of the engine, the roar of the Chimeras’ heavy bolters and the crackle of five score lasguns blazing away, not to mention the screaming of the jetbikes.

‘You’re welcome, commissar,’ he replied, as though he’d done nothing more significant than hand me a sandwich, and gunned the engine, while I clambered aboard. Though the open passenger compartment was as uninviting as I’d expected, at least it afforded some protection from the wind, and I immediately felt a little warmer even though intellectually I knew I was still in danger of freezing to death. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, but I thought you’d appreciate a warm drink when I caught up with you.’

Sure enough, there was a flask of hot tanna sitting on top of my kitbag in the corner, which I lost no time in cracking open and swallowing gratefully. If anything it was too warm still, burning my tongue on the way through and tracing a little track of liquid lava down to my stomach, but by that time I was past caring. ‘You thought right,’ I assured him, and took another swallow, on the grounds that the damage had already been done by this time, and under the circumstances I needed to be able to move more than I needed my stomach lining.

‘The command centre, sir?’ Jurgen asked, and I nodded through sheer force of habit before remembering he couldn’t see me.

‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ I said, gazing skywards. In all our years of serving together I’d grown so used to Jurgen’s robust driving style that I could normally keep to my feet no matter what he did, but – still sluggish from the cold – my body didn’t respond as instinctively as usual, and I found myself stumbling as he engaged the gears and slammed the throttle fully open, his usual method of starting off. I clutched at the pintle-mounted storm bolter for support, swinging it round as I regained my balance, and found one of the eldar raiders drifting across the sights. Even before my conscious mind had registered what I was seeing, I pulled the trigger, sending a hail of explosive-tipped projectiles in its general direction.

Luck or the Emperor was certainly with me that day, as the volley ripped along its starboard side, either detonating within the engine, or cooking off its powercells.[18] A miniature thunderclap echoed across the landing field, audible even over the racket of all that firing, and everyone in the vicinity ducked to protect their heads from the rain of debris and dismembered pointy-ear which descended abruptly from the middle of a short-lived fireball. The remaining intact flyer evidently decided enough was enough at that point, and made a run for it, slotting into formation with the one the Chimeras had dented, which was already wallowing away towards the south-west, trailing smoke.

‘Good shot, commissar,’ Sulla broke in, her voice a little attenuated by the miniature vox-device in my ear, and I belatedly realised that at least some of the cheering I could hear from the assembled troopers was intended for me. She’d obviously had a clear view of the incident from her perch in the Chimera turret, and if distance had made it look as though my lucky hit had been the result of skilful marksmanship, who was I to disabuse her?

‘Same to you,’ I said, with a wave in the direction of the retreating eldar. ‘The one you got won’t be in any hurry to tangle with the Five Hundred and Ninety-Seventh again either.’ Which may even have been true, but unfortunately there were still plenty of others who still had that lesson to learn.

Editorial Note:

There now follows one of the lacunae in Cain’s narrative which typically occur whenever he feels nothing of interest has happened to him personally in the intervening period. A great deal happened in the month he so cavalierly glosses over, however, so – as is my habit under these circumstances – I’ve attempted to fill the gap with some supplementary material.

Unfortunately, as so often the case where his period of service with the 597th is concerned, the most accessible and reliable account is that of Jenit Sulla, whose undeniable strategic and tactical expertise never extended to the selection of an appropriate adjective; or, indeed, a mere one when a handful would do. Those readers whose literary sensibilities are too tender to withstand one of her attempts to beat the Gothic language into submission will find Cain mentions enough in passing to infer much of what follows when he picks up his own narrative, and can therefore skip ahead without too much loss of clarity, but those robust enough to grit their teeth and plough on regardless will be rewarded for their persistence with a more rounded view.

The choice is yours: I know which I would make.

From Like a Phoenix on the Wing: the Early Campaigns and Glorious Victories of the Valhallan 597th by General Jenit Sulla (retired), 101 M42

The baptism of fire which we received on disembarkation was, as we’d been forewarned, an early harbinger of the conflict to come, though by the grace of the Emperor, and the inspirational leadership of Commissar Cain, the perfidious eldar got an early taste of the defeat which became inevitable as soon as our women and men set foot on the welcoming snows of Drechia. Had it not been for the redoubtable commissar’s alertness and typical concern for those fortunate enough to serve with him, warning us all before carrying the fight to the enemy without a thought for his personal safety, things might well have gone far worse than they did.

But thanks to Commissar Cain we had an early and easy victory, which did much to swell the hearts and stiffen the resolve of the daughters and sons of Valhalla – a resolve which hardened rapidly to ice,[19] inspiring us all to do our duty without fear or hesitation.

Indeed, at first we may even have been a trifle overconfident, as the tide of battle seemed to be turning in our favour with remarkable speed. The terrain we found ourselves in was ideal for skirmish warfare, being frequently wrapped in blizzards and lesser flurries which concealed our movements, and which enabled us to conduct a number of highly successful ambuscades. The last sight for many an eldar pirate was a Valhallan soldier rising from beneath the snow,[20] lasgun or utility blade in hand to strike them down without mercy in the blessed name of Him on Earth.

Despite the optimistic forecast of some of the rank and file that we’d have the xenos on the run within days of our arrival, however, I couldn’t quite shake a sense of foreboding that things had been a little too easy for us, and that the tide of battle might be about to turn. Accordingly, we busied ourselves with strengthening the defences bequeathed to us by the local planetary defence force, which, alas, was barely adequate to the task of protecting the strategically vital mines. Though no doubt doing the best job they could, their reluctance to engage the enemy in the open, where the attackers were most vulnerable, meant that there were very few heavy weapon emplacements on the surface approaches, and no trenches linking them to facilitate the protected movement of our reserves, which might have slowed an assault. Wary of underestimating our opponents, Colonel Kasteen ordered the immediate construction of adequate fortifications, which went on apace, removing the local defence troopers from the surface altogether in favour of deploying them at strategic points in the hab areas and the mine itself, where their local knowledge would be utilised to its best effect, and, as Commissar Cain jokingly put it, ‘they couldn’t get in the way when the fighting starts.’[21]

A piece of foresight which was to prove its worth ere long, as the eldar made their first attack in force. I had adumbrated such a move on the part of our enemies for several days by this point, since their periodic raids had diminished in frequency to the point of apparently ceasing altogether, and the only reasonable inference was that they were about to change their tactics. A conclusion, it must be said, which was shared by Colonel Kasteen, Major Broklaw and, of course, the inestimable Commissar Cain. Since the majority of the early attacks had been on the storage areas near the landing field, where the bounty of the mines was sent off-world for utilisation and such further processing as was economically unfeasible in the outer system, the stockpiles had been moved under cover where a chain of natural caverns, considerably enlarged by subsequent ore extraction, stood conveniently close to the entrance of the mines.

These, of course, immediately became the pirates’ prime target, and no little effort was made to secure them as far as was feasible. And, as we’d all anticipated, it wasn’t long before the perfidious[22] xenos struck, just as we had anticipated.

Our first intimation of trouble came as second platoon of my own company escorted a convoy of trucks to the landing field, to meet the first incoming shuttle from an orbiting ore barge. Such operations had become routine, of course, over the past few weeks, running almost around the clock,[23] and we had no reason to suspect that this occasion would be any different.

Until, that is, a squadron of eldar jetbikes screamed down out of the evening sky, spitting fire at our gallant defenders. This was a tactic we’d become used to, of course, and our Chimera crews responded with alacrity, laying down an impenetrable field of fire with their turret-mounted heavy bolters. In this they were greatly aided by a couple of Hydras, requisitioned from the local defence force, whose own enginseers had proved inadequate to the task of resanctifying them after they’d taken some disabling battle damage in the early days of the conflict.[24] So far, then, we’d seen nothing out of the ordinary – a minor irritation at best.[25] That was to change, however, as the leading Chimera took a hit to its flanking armour which killed its engine, driver and gunner but, by the Emperor’s good grace, left most of the squad riding in it relatively unharmed – who, of course, disembarked with speed, taking the fight to the enemy with all the righteous wrath it behoves us to display in the face of the unhallowed.

That such a grievous blow was far beyond the firepower available to the swooping jetbikes became immediately apparent to me, and I swiftly despatched first and fifth platoon to reinforce the beleaguered convoy, while deploying third and fourth to the flanks, intending to channel the incoming raiders towards the waiting guns of the rest of the regiment – a course of action, I’m gratified to say, which Colonel Kasteen immediately approved, mobilising two further companies to assist us. Further incoming fire, and a break in the mild blizzard[26] then prevailing, revealed the full extent of the threat we were facing: eldar Dreadnoughts, towering over the ground troops scuttling round their feet, their weapons dealing out destruction with every stride. Undaunted, the surviving vehicles retargeted their heavy bolters, ignoring for the nonce the jetbikes which continued to harry them like circling carrion birds, and were soon giving as good as they got, chewing away at the curious flexible material of which these hell-spawned monstrosities were composed.[27]

Nevertheless, as the battle continued to rage, Commissar Cain’s frustration at being, for once, out of the thick of the fighting palpable in his voxed exhortations of encouragement, the balance began to tip inexorably in favour of the xenos interlopers. For a moment, indeed, every woman and man of us held her or his breath, preparing for the onslaught, resolute in our duty and our loyalty to the Golden Throne until, with a loud huzzah!, our Sentinel squadron burst from the cover of the abandoned warehouses surrounding us to take the enemy by surprise in their turn. Caught between this fresh threat and the newly emboldened convoy escorts, the eldar began to waver, only to see one of the Dreadnoughts chewed to pieces by a Hydra, which had followed the example of the Chimeras and redirected its fire towards the targets on the ground. Strictly against standing doctrine, but under the circumstances I felt the gunner’s show of initiative was justified, if not actually commendable.

That was the final straw, and the whole pack turned, retreating in remarkably good order, but retreating none the less.

So ended the first major battle with the eldar, but it was a victory I felt was hard won – so much so that the thought of how close we had come to defeat continued to worry me for some days afterwards, spurring us all on to do our utmost to ensure our ultimate victory.

Three

‘How are we supposed to keep the bastards contained when we don’t even know where they’re coming from?’ Kasteen asked, glaring at the hololith in the command centre as though it had just said something deeply offensive about her parentage. At the moment there were no confirmed enemy contacts marked, although a few runes indicated possible sightings within the last day or so. Since they’d all been reported by local militia units, who never ventured out of their comfortably heated transports or beyond their assigned patrol areas around the most populous hab zones, none of us were inclined to give them much credence though. ‘And where the hell do they go afterwards?’

‘Just what we’ve been asking ourselves ever since they first arrived,’ our constant, unwelcome and uninvited guest put in dryly. Kelso Proktor was our liaison with the local governor’s office, a fairly thankless task to give him his due, since the governor herself had barely so much as acknowledged our presence. In fact she’d made it abundantly clear from the moment of our arrival that she resented the imposition of an Astra Militarum regiment on her world, remaining convinced in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary that her own local militia would have had the xenos interlopers on the run in short order.[28] Proktor was dressed in the grey vestments of a senior Administratum adept, and everything about him, from his pallor to the tenor of his voice, seemed designed to blur the boundary between the man and his clothing. On the plus side, I’d noticed, he tended to say what he thought regardless of how it might be received, took the time to consider whatever information was to hand before offering an opinion, and displayed occasional signs of a sense of humour rare in a bureaucrat of his eminence – which, I strongly suspected, went a long way towards explaining how he’d managed to hack off the governor enough to be assigned to us.

‘Ciaphas?’ Broklaw looked at me appraisingly over the lip of his tanna bowl, squinting a little through the rising steam. Through long habit I’d made sure (or, to be more accurate, made sure Jurgen made sure) that the samovar was close to the main briefing area, where I spent the bulk of my time ostensibly analysing what meagre intelligence we’d been able to gather about the enemy and their movements. Though the Valhallans around me, manning vox and data lecterns for the most part, were in shirt sleeves, the air temperature was still hovering at levels more suited to the preservation of meat, and a ready supply of warm beverages was at least as essential to my relative comfort as my Commissariat-issue greatcoat (for which I’d been constantly grateful since first being assigned to a regiment from an iceworld). ‘You’ve seen more of the eldar than the rest of us. What do you think?’

I shrugged, as though my previous encounters with the creatures had been of little interest or concern, although they’d taken me as close to death as I’d ever been on a couple of occasions.[29] ‘We were hardly on social terms,’ I said, noting the shadow of a smile on Proktor’s face at the remark with a flicker of gratified surprise. Kasteen and Broklaw had become used to my pose of self-deprecating humour over the years, and it was nice to see that it still worked on other people. ‘But they seem to get around by using some kind of tunnels through space. Which is why they’re so damnably hard to pin down, of course.’

‘You mean they can jump through the warp?’ Proktor asked, clearly astonished; his voice had acquired a quiver of emotion quite unlike his usual barely inflected delivery, which had become a little more nasal since he’d begun spending so much time in the command centre and acquired a semi-permanent cold. He made the sign of the aquila as he spoke, reflexively warding off any misfortune which might have accrued from the casual mention of the immaterium itself, then looked faintly embarrassed as he realised what he’d done.

‘I thought opening a way into the warp meant some kind of ritual,’ Kasteen said. ‘Like those cultists were trying to do on Adumbria.’

I nodded in reply, trying not to think too much about that particular incident. They’d been trying to let Emeli, a Slaaneshi sorceress I’d already killed once, return to the materium as a daemon, and had come within a heartbeat of succeeding. I generally did my best to put both incidents out of my mind, as Emeli had a disconcerting habit of invading my dreams whenever I was reminded of them, and I was morbidly certain she’d do so again tonight now the sludge of memory had been stirred up; but, on the bright side, a life like mine tended to stock the subconscious with more than enough material for nightmares, so I might end up reliving some other horror entirely.

‘It doesn’t work quite the same way with the eldar,’ I said, trying to recall some of the things Amberley had said about them over the years – although, to be honest, discussing the peculiar habits of xenos was hardly the first thing on my mind when I found myself in her immediate proximity. ‘These tunnels are sort of halfway between the real universe and the warp. Don’t ask me how it works, though.’

‘Tunnels have an opening at the end,’ Kasteen said thoughtfully, ever the practical warrior. ‘Can we blow up the ones on Drechia, and collapse them?’

‘I’m not sure they work like that,’ I said slowly. ‘There might be some physical structure we could damage, I suppose. But that wouldn’t necessarily affect the rest of it.’

‘If I may make a suggestion,’ Proktor said, with the inflection of someone who was going to whether anyone minded or not, ‘perhaps we could estimate the location of these tunnel mouths by looking at the sites of the previous eldar attacks, and seeing where they approached from and retreated to.’ Like the rest of us, he had a bowl of tanna in his hands, but he rarely sipped at it,[30] apparently regarding it as some kind of hand warmer.

‘Might be worth a try,’ Broklaw said, sounding faintly surprised, and calling up a rash of new icons which made the hololith display look as though it had just come down with a bad case of the mirepox. The image blurred even more than usual, and the enginseer stationed at the controls muttered a benediction, twiddled a knob or two, and kicked the casing in the ceremonial dent. The display steadied, and the major frowned, isolating a few of the runes. ‘These are the actions we’ve been involved in since deployment, and the red ones are the firefights with the locals. Shouldn’t be too hard to glean the information we need from the AARs.’[31]

‘Ours, anyway,’ Kasteen said, with more than a trace of scepticism. ‘Can’t see the ones from the local lot having much useful detail.’

‘We won’t know until we try,’ Broklaw said, with a fine show of optimism, though I noticed that it didn’t extend quite far enough to actually disagree with her. ‘I’ll get it analysed, and see what we can uncover.’ He turned to Proktor, the first faint traces of doubt beginning to enter his voice. ‘I take it your people have some sort of analyticum we can use?’

‘Of course we do,’ Proktor said, with the closest to anything approaching animation I’d seen on his face so far. ‘The scribes of the governor’s office have access to the finest cogitator array in the outer system. It’s supposed to keep track of the mining outputs, shipping manifests, tithing revenues and that sort of thing. But I’m sure you’ll be able to requisition it, with the authority of the Munitorum behind you.’

‘We can,’ Kasteen said, with the easy confidence of someone able to impose martial law whenever she felt like it.[32] ‘But the governor’s probably not going to like it.’

Proktor shook his head. ‘I disagree. The governor’s definitely not going to like it.’ Which seemed, if anything, to be an additional recommendation from his point of view.

‘If it gives us an edge,’ I said, feeling I ought to contribute something, if only to remind everyone I was still there, ‘it doesn’t matter who gets hacked off, or how much. Our duty to the Emperor comes first.’

‘Absolutely,’ Kasteen said, while Broklaw nodded vehemently, and even Proktor seemed quietly impressed. ‘You do have a knack for cutting through the frak, Ciaphas.’

‘Then I’d better make the arrangements,’ Proktor said, and bowed formally, preparatory to taking his leave. Bowing seemed to be a big thing with the Drechians, every formal interaction apparently requiring everyone involved to bob up and down like bottom-feeding waterfowl; fortunately my off-world status and exaggerated reputation spared me the bother. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

Surprisingly, he was as good as his word and, unsurprisingly, the governor was just as annoyed and obstructive as he’d predicted. Nevertheless, by dint of subtle diplomacy, rather less subtle appeals to my exalted status as a bona fide Hero of the Imperium, and not subtle at all threats to execute anybody impeding us in our duty, up to and including Her Excellency, we got the information back that we needed. With the result that, several days after our previous conversation, Kasteen, Broklaw, Proktor and I found ourselves clustered around the hololith again. Proktor, I’d noticed, was evidently getting used to the Valhallan preference for temperatures which left the breath smoking, his robe a good deal thicker than on his previous visits, which – given my habit of bundling up in my greatcoat and donning an extra pair of socks every time I attended a meeting there – I could hardly blame him for.

‘The majority of attacks seem to be made from low orbit,’ he said, manipulating the controls with surprising ease, and ignoring the enginseer hovering anxiously at his shoulder whose mechadendrites twitched with manifest eagerness to make minute adjustments every time Proktor poked something. ‘And, fortunately, local traffic control has an extensive augur array to monitor the incoming and outgoing ore barges.’ He worked the control lectern again, and the mottled sphere of Drechia suddenly became entangled in what looked like the ball of string Jurgen found in the back of a storage locker once and decided to hang on to in case it came in handy, which it might well have done if he’d ever been able to locate one of its ends. ‘Which would put the end of the tunnel about here.’ He pointed to a particularly large and obdurate knot a few thousand kilometres out into the void, grazing the edge of Avernus’ inordinately large and elaborate ring system.

‘No help to us,’ Kasteen said briskly. ‘They can hit anything on the surface from there, and from any direction.’

‘Though they do seem to have a preference for “up”,’ I added dryly, having developed the habit of scanning the skies whenever my duties took me outdoors. Even when they weren’t mounting a raid in search of loot, the eldar roamed the air constantly, swooping on any military assets they spotted, popping off a round or two, then scuttling off like the cowards they were.

‘Which makes it a job for the system defence force,’[33] Broklaw concluded.

Proktor shook his head slowly. ‘It would be if we had one,’ he agreed, ‘but we don’t. In theory, we’re part of the Ironfound System, so we’re supposed to be protected by their system defence assets, and the authorities here decided it would be a waste of resources to build our own.’ He coughed delicately. ‘Unfortunately, the Ironfounders have a different view. They contend that we have our own governor and Administratum, so their military responsibilities end at the halo as well.’

‘Is it too late to shoot the governor for gross incompetence?’ I asked, more as a joke than a serious suggestion. True, one of the dubious benefits of a scarlet sash[34] is a free hand to shoot pretty much anyone in the Imperial military you feel like, and as the head of the system’s armed forces a planetary governor theoretically falls under that heading, but in practice the political fallout would be immense, and at least the bloody woman was staying out of our way, which wouldn’t necessarily be the case with her successor. Besides, that sort of thing wouldn’t sit too well with the firm but fair image I’ve worked so hard to create. Nevertheless, to my surprise, Proktor seemed to be taking me seriously.

‘Though it pains me to say it,’ he said, ‘it isn’t exactly her fault. The jurisdictional dispute has been going on for the last nine hundred years.’

Which meant that, even allowing for the aristocracy’s fondness for excessive juvenat treatments, this would be a situation she’d inherited from an ancestor.

‘Fair enough,’ I agreed. ‘Though it could hardly have hurt her to have approved the commissioning of a cutter or two once she took office.’

‘Which would have been blown to perdition as soon as the xenos turned up anyway,’ Kasteen pointed out. ‘Might as well wish for a flotilla of battleships while you’re about it.’ She turned back to the hololith. ‘Any others?’

‘Possibly,’ Proktor said, dismissing the tangle of string with an abrupt gesture which elicited a whine of dismay from the onlooking tech-priest, unless it was just a worn servo somewhere beneath his robe. This revealed more threads, running from mineheads and storage facilities to wrap the globe in a spider web of intertwining lines. ‘These are the approach and retreat vectors we can most reliably extrapolate from the data we were given.’ Which, to my immense lack of surprise, were almost all from actions carried out by the 597th – although, to be fair, a few of the local defence force’s skirmishes were also marked, for the most part in locations where the relatively open ground would have made the raiders’ incoming and outgoing courses fairly obvious.

‘Most of those could just as easily have entered the atmosphere below the horizon,’ Broklaw pointed out, an instant before I could.

Kasteen nodded. ‘A lot of them probably did. But there are a few places where the vectors intersect that might be worth a look.’

‘There are.’ Proktor obligingly highlighted them, to Kasteen’s obvious and pleased surprise. ‘Though none of them seem particularly accessible.’

‘Which would be the point, I imagine,’ Broklaw commented dryly. ‘They’re hardly going to put the end of a warp tunnel in the middle of the main hab zone, are they?’

‘I imagine the tunnel would have predated Imperial settlement,’ Proktor said, with considerable understatement.

‘Either way, we’ll need to check them out,’ Kasteen said, with a jaundiced look at the hololith. ‘Although what we’re actually looking for, Throne alone knows.’ She glanced in my direction. ‘Ciaphas?’

‘Haven’t a clue,’ I admitted, which, to be honest, was fine by me. I dredged my memory, trying to come up with some nugget of information Amberley might have imparted over the years, but came up blank. ‘I suppose anything that might look a bit eldary.’

‘Eldary?’ she repeated, as though it just might make sense if she heard it often enough. ‘Is that even a word?’

‘If it isn’t, it’ll just have to do until a proper one comes along,’ I said. I looked at the half a dozen or so locations Proktor had highlighted, finding each one less promising than the last. Nothing but snow, ice and crevasses which could swallow a Chimera whole without pausing to belch afterwards. A playground for the Valhallans, in other words: if we asked for volunteers we’d be trampled in the rush. I glanced hopefully at Proktor. ‘None of these sites figure in the local folklore, I suppose?’

‘Folklore?’ If anything he looked even more taken aback than Kasteen had at my impromptu coinage of ‘eldary.’ ‘Why would they?’

‘Because in my experience, anything tainted by xenos or the warp leaves traces of some kind,’ I said, as kindly as I could. It wasn’t Proktor’s fault he was a civilian, and concomitantly inexperienced in the ways of the galaxy. ‘Even if it’s as tenuous as ghost stories.’

‘I see what you mean.’ He nodded judiciously. ‘Things like the snow walkers.’

‘Probably,’ I said, having no idea what snow walkers were, but pretty much every world had its bogeymen and they all seemed to be pretty much alike. ‘Things people only ever catch a glimpse of, usually when the weather’s really bad, or they’ve had a drink or two?’

‘That’s right,’ Proktor confirmed. ‘Shadowy figures made of snowflakes that hide in the blizzards. Most people think they’re just thicker flurries and overactive imaginations.’

‘Most people are probably right,’ Kasteen said, dismissing the matter. ‘But they don’t sound particularly eldary,’ at which she smiled wryly in my direction, ‘in any case.’

‘They don’t,’ Broklaw agreed. He turned to Proktor. ‘But are any of these sites associated with the stories at all?’

‘Not to my knowledge,’ Proktor said. He thought for a moment. ‘But I’ll have someone look into it. Just in case.’

‘Thank you.’ Kasteen returned her attention to the hololith. ‘We’ll just have to send someone out to take a look then.’

‘Several someones,’ I said, considering the matter. ‘And it’ll take some time. They’re pretty widespread.’

‘That they are,’ Kasteen agreed. ‘And the more troopers we send out, the less able we are to defend the mines. I don’t want to weaken our defences any more than we can help, especially after that last attack.’

‘Neither do I,’ I agreed. The fight had been long and bloody, the eldar attacking with their largest force yet, and if it hadn’t been for the Valhallans’ innate ability to take full advantage of the hostile terrain it could easily have gone the other way; even as it was it had been a damnably close run thing. ‘I’m in no hurry to tangle with those Dreadnoughts again.’ They’d been hellishly fast and agile, far more so than their Imperial counterparts. Going by what I’d seen – from as far away as possible – they might even have outclassed the ones the t’au use, which was a sobering thought indeed.

‘We don’t need to assign a scouting party to each objective,’ Broklaw said, replacing Proktor at the hololith controls, to the markedly increased agitation of the hovering tech-priest. He poked at them for a moment, overlaying long, looping paths across the locations the Administratum adept had highlighted. ‘Two or three should be enough, if we’re prepared to wait another couple of days for them to complete the circuit.’

‘Works for me,’ Kasteen said, and I nodded my own agreement. Not that it was strictly necessary, given my position outside the chain of command, but we’d worked together long enough to trust each other’s judgement, and it never hurt to have the record show that the regimental commissar was on side too. She indicated the longest of the loops. ‘Shambas can take that one. The Sentinels will move faster over broken terrain than the Chimeras can.’

‘It’s what they’re for, after all,’ I concurred. The Sentinel troop was on our SO&E[35] as a scout unit, although the walkers’ ability to move rapidly through a combat zone and deliver a considerable punch with their multilasers when they reached their objective made them pretty useful for hit-and-run attacks, or outflanking a static or slow-moving enemy, too. If Kasteen hadn’t thrown them in against the eldar Dreadnoughts, turning the xenos’ own tactics against them, things would probably have turned out far worse. ‘Who else are you sending?’

Kasteen shrugged. ‘I’ll get Sulla to assign one of her platoon commanders to sort it out. A couple of squads apiece ought to do it.’ Which made sense. The two vehicles could watch each other’s backs, and in the event of one being disabled by mishap or enemy action no one would be left stranded in the wilderness – although the ride back would be uncomfortably crowded.

‘That’s what I’d do,’ Broklaw said, and sighed with as close as he ever got to visible frustration, at least with a civilian within earshot. ‘But what I wouldn’t give for a Valkyrie or two.’

I nodded; with a couple of the sturdy aerial transports at our disposal we could have checked out all the sites in a matter of hours. The 597th, however, had no aerial assets of its own, relying on liaising with other regiments when they were required – or, if there was no other alternative, the local planetary defence force. As we were the only Imperial Guard regiment on Drechia, however, the first was not an option, and since the eldar had shot down all the local aircraft in the early days of their campaign, neither was the second.

‘And if wishing made it so, Horus would be the Emperor,’ I concluded, falling back on one of the platitudes from my childhood which censorious adults used to use to manage over-inflated expectations,[36] though inflecting it as a joke, in case it was taken for a genuine rebuke. ‘We’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got.’

‘We always do,’ Kasteen said.

Four

Our Sentinels went stomping off into the swirling, blood-tinged snow shortly after dawn the next day, their pilots waving cheerily from the open cockpits, despite the bone-freezing temperatures which had me watching on a vid screen from the relative warmth of the command centre – a former planetary defence force facility into which we’d been welcomed on our arrival with every outward courtesy and barely concealed resentment. It was far from the first time the 597th had found itself in this kind of position, though, and I’d been able to bring the commanders round fairly quickly by asking their advice about local conditions (which we generally ignored) and chairing interminable liaison meetings until we were actively cooperating as much as could be expected under the circumstances.

In the interests of keeping our reluctant allies on side I’d invited their lord marshal (who, in a less protocol-obsessed society, would just have been the most senior general and addressed as such) and a handful of his aides to join us for a briefing on what we were up to, and to witness the departure of our scouting parties. In the interests of staying warm, and keeping them out from under the feet of the rest of the regiment, I’d offered to keep them entertained with a pict show while Kasteen and Broklaw got on with some proper work. Needless to say my inflated reputation more than came into its own here, our guests delighted to be hobnobbing with a Hero of the Imperium, while I was perfectly happy to stay out of the wind, drink tanna, and not get shot at by any passing eldar.

‘I imagine you wish you were going with them,’ the lord marshal said, cradling the bowl of tanna Jurgen had just handed him, while breathing through his mouth until my aide had moved a couple of paces away. Which was the sort of thing people imagined all the time, although why they might think I was eager to put myself in imminent danger of a messy and painful death after having narrowly avoided one so often before was beyond me.

I shrugged, in my best self-deprecating manner. ‘Sentinels are one man vehicles,’ I said, as though that were a matter of thinly veiled disappointment rather than a relief. ‘I could hardly crowd into the cockpit with the pilot.’

‘But the other group are going in Chimeras,’ a sharp-featured middle- aged woman put in, the resemblance between her and the lord marshal sufficiently close to make the likelihood of her not being a close relative, daughter or niece perhaps, vanishingly small. ‘I’m sure they could squeeze you in.’

‘I’m sure they could,’ I said diplomatically, ‘but they have a job to do, and I’m sure they’ll get on with it a lot better without me in the way. Sometimes you need to show you have confidence in people to bring out their best.’

‘Indeed you do,’ the lord marshal agreed, to my faint surprise. ‘If you hover over their shoulder all the time you just put them off.’

The woman gave him a hard stare, in which much past history was encoded for those with the key to decipher it, but as that didn’t include me and I didn’t care anyway I pretended not to notice.

‘Quite so,’ I said, noncommittally, and activated the hololith. This time it was tended by an enginseer who seemed so bored she might just as well have been part of the equipment, although no doubt she was keeping herself occupied in whatever arcane manner acolytes of the Omnissiah generally do, meditating on left-handed stem bolts or something. In the interests of clarity – since these people were, after all, the cream of the local defence force, which meant they’d achieved their high rank through family connection rather than quick wits or military acumen – I’d elected to dispense with the vector analysis, simply highlighting the spots we were interested in. ‘These are the locations we feel may be of interest to the eldar.’

‘Why?’ the woman cut in again. ‘They’re all in the middle of nowhere.’

I hesitated. I didn’t want to spook anybody by invoking the spectre of the warp, but there didn’t seem much of an alternative. ‘We think it’s possible they may have established a beachhead somewhere on Drechia itself,’ I said, choosing my words carefully. ‘Our analysis of the data you provided,’ and the rather more useful information we’d collected ourselves, but they didn’t need to know that, ‘leads us to believe that these are the most likely locations.’

‘You think they have up to seven beachheads?’ The lord marshal laughed, sipped at his tanna, then hastily put his bowl down. ‘I’m pretty sure we would have noticed at least one of them by now.’

‘As am I,’ I lied smoothly, although I doubted some of these people would have noticed if a squad of Banshees had wandered into the command centre and helped themselves to the tanna while we were talking. ‘But we would have been derelict in our duty to the Emperor if we hadn’t taken steps to discount the possibility.’

‘That may be so,’ the woman cut in again, ‘but you still haven’t told us exactly what you’re looking for.’ Throne help me, I was either beginning to admire her persistence or wish she’d drop dead. Perhaps a little of both.

‘We’re not entirely sure,’ I admitted, ‘but we’ll certainly know it if we see it.’

She nodded. ‘They’re just looking for anything that seems a bit eldary.’

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ I said. The images on the vid screen blurred for a moment, although whether from static or a sudden flurry of snow I couldn’t have said, and if the enginseer knew, she wasn’t letting on. It cleared to show the last of the Chimeras setting off, farting promethium fumes which obscured the image even more, then the screen went blank. ‘Well, that seems to be that. Shall we get down to business?’

‘By all means,’ the lord marshal agreed, leading the way over to the conference table in the corner, and sitting down in what should have been Kasteen’s seat at the head of the table. Since she wasn’t planning to attend, having expressed a preference when asked for going ork hunting with a pointy stick,[37] the matter was moot, and I decided to let it go. As the senior Astra Militarum representative I stationed myself at the other end of the table, warding off any rival claims by holding out my tanna bowl for a refill; I was still a little on the chilly side, and the approach of Jurgen with the teapot would be guaranteed to keep the chairs on either side of me comfortably clear of interlopers.

‘Thank you, Jurgen,’ I said, taking a sip of the warm and fragrant liquid, partly for the warmth it afforded and partly to displace his own, more earthy aroma from my nostrils. ‘Most welcome.’

‘Very good, sir.’ At which point he lumbered off to wait as unobtrusively as possible beside the refreshment table – which in his case was about as effective as an ogryn trying to blend in at a cotillion – while those who’d snaffled seats by the samovar for the extra warmth it afforded began to fidget uneasily as they found themselves within nasal range of him again.

‘Will that charming colonel of yours be joining us today?’ the lord marshal asked, and I shook my head with every sign of sincere regret.

‘She sends her apologies, but she and Major Broklaw are discussing improvements to our defences with the company commanders in the field. You would, of course, be welcome to join them.’

‘We wouldn’t like to get in the way,’ the lord marshal said hastily, the memory of the snow in the pict screen no doubt fresh in his mind. Despite living on an iceworld, the Drechians didn’t seem to have embraced their environment the way the Valhallans had, preferring to remain in their habs and tunnel complexes unless absolutely necessary. Part of the reason, I was sure, that the eldar had had such an easy time of it until the 597th had arrived to spoil their fun. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to brief us just as effectively. What are your immediate plans?’

To hang around as far from harm’s way as possible, of course, although I doubted that saying so would sit well with the erroneous impression of my martial zeal that these idiots seemed to have. Instead, I turned to the hololith and called up a topographical representation of the mine workings, the surface installations of which bobbed like bath toys over the tangled confusion of tunnels below the surface. There must have been hundreds of kilometres of interlinked shafts and galleries down there, as twisted as a tyranid’s intestines. I highlighted the main tunnels, which were large enough to drive a Chimera down with room to spare.[38]

‘The recent attack seemed to be focused on forcing the tunnel entrances here, here, and here,’ I said, ‘presumably with the intention of looting the stockpiles of processed materials stored in the caverns just below the surface.’ Which made them a lot easier to defend than they would have been in the warehouses near the shuttle pads, where the marauders could get at them easily; the few remaining undamaged were now empty and abandoned, apart from the odd Valhallan sniper, and of no strategic or economic value unless you considered them colossally expensive windbreaks. One of the few sensible decisions the locals had made before our arrival. ‘Fortunately the defences you’d put in place were sufficient to repel them.’ I paused, to let a ripple of self-congratulation propagate around the table, although truth to tell that was largely because the 597th had blunted the attack long before it got as far as the mine entrance and the defence force troopers manning the second line of defence. ‘It was a close run thing, though, which is why we propose fortifying in even more depth.’ Because the pointy-ears would have learned just as much from the skirmish as we had, and would probably roll right over us if we didn’t.

‘We thought you were already doing that,’ the lord marshal said, indicating the network of fresh trenches and firing pits behind their ramparts of ice sprawling out from the mining complex. Probably no one but the Valhallans, with their intimate knowledge of sub-zero conditions, could have constructed them so fast or used them so effectively, even with so much hastily requisitioned digging gear to hand.

‘We’ve made a few improvements,’ I said, blithely skating over the fact that we’d pretty much built most of it from scratch, or at least our sappers had. ‘But there’s always room for more. Complacency is the seedbed of defeat,[39] after all.’

‘Quite so,’ the lord marshal said, nodding in agreement as though he recognised the phrase – maybe he even did. ‘So what are you proposing?’

‘Reinforcing our outer lines here and here,’ I said, indicating a couple of potential choke points in the surrounding hills. ‘Nothing fancy, just laying a few mines for the most part,’ although what good they’d be against an enemy which relied on airborne assaults quite so much was beyond me. But at this stage it was as much about maintaining morale by appearing to take charge as it was about actually being able to stop the enemy in their tracks. ‘And we’re establishing forward observation posts in these locations, to improve response times in the event of another attack.’ Meaning when the next attack came. I didn’t have to go into that; they were at least clued up enough to know the eldar weren’t about to pack up and leave.

Everyone nodded, as though their approval were needed, and I returned to the mine workings themselves, highlighting some of the deeper tunnels. ‘The thing which most concerns us,’ I said, ‘are these galleries in the lower levels.’ I glanced towards the door, where our other guest for the day had just appeared. ‘Right on cue. I’m sure you all know Lennart Delvinge, the mine manager here.’ Actually, I was pretty sure none of them did, but since I couldn’t remember most of their names – if I’d even been told them in the first place – that neatly sidestepped the necessity of making any introductions.

‘Good shift change,’ Delvinge said, strolling into the room, and making for an empty seat about halfway between me and the planetary defence force delegation. He was a large man, so much so that I had difficulty picturing him in the confined space of a mineshaft, and it wasn’t until he’d cleared the door that I noticed Proktor had accompanied him. The governor’s envoy nodded a greeting, without specifically directing it to anyone, before settling himself carefully opposite Delvinge.

‘Thank you for joining us at such short notice,’ I said. Delvinge and I had exchanged a few words since our arrival, although Broklaw had had the dubious privilege of liaising with him for most of our time on Drechia. According to the major he seemed content to let us get on with things without getting in the way, so long as we returned the favour and disrupted the running of the mine as little as possible. Which, given that the eldar were causing far more trouble than we were, wasn’t that difficult. ‘We were about to consider our options in the lower levels.’

‘Well, that’s easy.’ Delvinge chuckled throatily, his jowls wobbling, and once again I found myself reflecting that it must have been years, if not decades, since he’d last had his hands on a pick. Those certainly weren’t clothes you’d want to risk getting grubby, not with all that brocade and fancy needlework. ‘You don’t have any.’

‘Would you care to explain that?’ the woman accompanying the lord marshal asked, taking her attention off me now there was somebody new to butt heads with.

‘There’s nothing down there, except firedamp,[40] flooded galleries and rotted props. If you so much as sneeze, you’ll have half the roof coming down on your head.’ He chuckled again, as though the prospect was a highly amusing one.

‘Nevertheless, they should be secured,’ I said, recalling at least one occasion when a tunnel complex we’d been guarding turned out to have an unexpected exit behind enemy lines – not to mention an even more unpleasant surprise lying in wait for us beneath it.[41] I turned to the lord marshal. ‘Perhaps some of your people could mount a guard where they connect with the main workings.’

‘I’m sure that could be arranged,’ he agreed, no doubt enormously flattered at being asked to make a serious contribution to the defence of the mine. Which is how we’d sell it to whichever militia trolls eventually got lumbered with the job of hanging around in the dark waiting for nothing to happen. At least it would free up our own troopers to get on with something useful, and in the unlikely event of something ravening up out of the depths we’d be alerted without losing anybody important.

‘Why are they so irregular?’ the lord marshal’s aide asked. ‘The higher galleries are far more structured.’ And indeed they were, forming a rough gridded pattern, with the odd exception slashing through the rock in a random direction, presumably following a seam of ore.

Delvinge chuckled again; I was beginning to suspect that it was more of a nervous tic than any sign of genuine amusement, although it seemed to be irritating the sharp-faced woman, which was fine by me. ‘Some of them are worked-out seams. In the early days the diggers just followed where they led. Now we’ve got a better refining plant, or those smart buggers on Ironfound have anyway, so we can just send them any old dross and they’re happy. Makes more sense to take out the lower-grade stuff methodically, see?’

Proktor and I nodded, as much to encourage him to continue as to indicate any particular level of understanding. Delvinge acknowledged the gesture with a nod of his own, which left his jowls oscillating for a moment. ‘The others are natural fissures. Part of the reason the mine’s here in the first place is because the stuff was easy to get at, way back when.’

I began to feel a premonitory tingle in the palms of my hands. ‘And were these fissures ever mapped, beyond the bounds of the mine?’

Unexpectedly, it was Proktor who answered, before the corpulent overseer could get a word in. He shook his head.

‘If they were, there are no records of the fact. I made a thorough search of the archives at Major Broklaw’s request.’

‘Why would there be?’ Delvinge asked, in what seemed to be genuine bafflement. ‘Once the seams ran out, who cares?’

‘We should,’ I said, the tingling in my palms intensifying. It’s a sensation I’ve felt often, and learned not to ignore, my subconscious identifying a threat not immediately clear to my rational mind. Of course, on occasion it’s been nothing but paranoia, but listening to it the rest of the time is one of the reasons I’ve lasted long enough to squander my pension in tarot games with Rorkins and Visiter.[42] I examined the hololith again, seeing my presentiment confirmed: the tangle of less-regular fissures ended precisely at the boundary of a sphere centred in the middle of the mine. For all we knew they could extend for kilometres. Of course Delvinge was almost certainly right – they’d peter out to mere cracks in the rock or simply disappear altogether, with nothing more lethal than inedible fungus lurking down there, but until we could be certain of that they were a potential hole in our defences, and needed to be treated as such. I tapped the comm-bead in my ear, accessing Kasteen and Broklaw’s private channels. ‘Colonel, major. Sorry to interrupt, but something’s come up which we need to discuss,’ I said.

‘Frak it,’ Kasteen said, neatly summing up the mood of the meeting. Her temper hadn’t exactly been improved by finding the lord marshal ensconced in her rightful place at the head of the table, but, too diplomatic to show the fact to anyone who didn’t know her as well as Broklaw and I did, she simply remained standing beside the hololith, effectively taking charge of the briefing. ‘We need to make sure we’re not vulnerable, and we need to do it fast.’ She turned to the local defence force delegation. ‘How soon can you get teams down there to start mapping the tunnels?’

The lord marshal shifted a little in his chair, as though the seat had suddenly become warmer by a couple of degrees. He coughed. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ he said.

‘Name of the Throne, how much simpler could it be?’ Kasteen snapped. ‘Big hole, spare troopers, go down, have a look. Or am I missing something?’

‘It’s a matter of jurisdiction,’ the hard-featured woman explained, coming to the lord marshal’s rescue. ‘All military operations in or around an active mineral extraction facility have to be approved by the Bureau of Tithing, which oversees the mines on behalf of the governor’s office.’

‘That’s true,’ Proktor agreed, ‘although under most circumstances that’s purely a formality.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ Kasteen said, after a couple of deep breaths which appeared to have little effect. ‘If the eldar attack the mine you can’t fight them off without asking the governor to sign a bit of paper first?’

‘Not exactly,’ the lord marshal said, looking a little happier now it appeared he had something positive to contribute. ‘Engaging the enemy in the defence of our economic assets is well within our remit.’

‘Fine,’ Kasteen said. ‘A recon sweep’s engaging the enemy.’

‘Only if they find some,’ the woman said, then subsided as Kasteen glanced in her direction, clearly sensing that she at least was not safe to argue with.

‘Technically, that’s correct,’ Proktor said, with an apologetic cough. ‘I’m by no means sure that our defence force would be authorised to conduct a mapping operation without liaising with the Bureau first, unless they were actively pursuing a confirmed enemy contact into uncharted territory.’

‘And I can assure you there are no eldar lurking at the bottom of my mine,’ Delvinge broke in, with another laugh which died of strangulation the second Kasteen’s eyes swivelled in his direction. ‘I’m quite sure we’d have noticed by now.’

‘That’s as may be,’ I said, ‘but we’d be derelict in our duty if we ignored the possibility. How long would these formalities take?’

Proktor shrugged. ‘A day or two, maybe. Not long.’

‘That’s a day or two we may not have,’ Broklaw interjected soberly, saving me the bother. ‘We’ll take care of it ourselves.’ He glanced at Kasteen, who nodded almost imperceptibly in approval, as we’d both known she would. ‘I’ll see what units we have available.’

‘You’ll kill yourselves,’ Delvinge said, showing no inclination to laugh at all now. ‘Like I told you, it’s a death trap down there.’

‘Just another day at the office, then,’ I said, to remind everyone what a hero I was supposed to be. I was certain I knew tunnels well enough to keep out of any serious trouble down there, and it would keep me about as far away from the invading eldar and their bloody jetbikes as it was possible to get. With any luck I’d be able to spin the job out for several days, too.

‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ Kasteen said, right on cue. She glanced at me soberly. ‘I know you’ve got a lot of things you’d rather be getting on with, but no one in the regiment knows tunnel fighting like you do. I’d appreciate it if you’d accompany the command squad, and give them the benefit of your advice.’

‘And keep me out of your hair for a bit,’ I said, with an easy smile, which she and Broklaw returned, to the evident bafflement of everyone else present. ‘Try to save a couple of pointy-ears for me.’

‘There’s more than enough to go around,’ Broklaw assured me, which I found a far less satisfying thought than he evidently did. He glanced up from his data-slate. ‘Grifen’s platoon’s available.’

‘Excellent choice,’ I agreed. I’d been on a similar tunnel crawl with the squad she’d led, back when she’d been a sergeant,[43] although the circumstances had rapidly become far more difficult than I was anticipating here, and she’d acquitted herself well on that occasion. ‘Couldn’t ask for better.’ I paused, as though suddenly struck by an afterthought. ‘It’ll give me a chance to see how she’s getting on after her promotion as well.’

‘Trust you to think of that,’ Kasteen said, taking the remark entirely at face value, and the meeting broke up. The planetary defence force contingent drifted away looking mildly embarrassed, Proktor with sardonic promises to expedite their paperwork to the best of his ability, and Delvinge still expostulating about the dangers awaiting us in the lower levels and absolving himself of any dire consequences to come. Which, to be fair, he was quite right about, although in a manner he couldn’t possibly have predicted.

A familiar odour manifested itself at my shoulder, followed a heartbeat later by my aide. ‘You’ll be wanting a flask, then, sir,’ he said.

‘An excellent suggestion,’ I agreed. ‘And something to eat before we go.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Jurgen nodded, and waved a grubby hand somewhere in the vicinity of his face, which was as close as he generally got to a salute. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He paused on his way out of the door to glance back in my direction. ‘Should I bring the melta along?’

‘Might as well,’ I agreed. Taking the heavy weapon would probably turn out to be a complete waste of time, but if it didn’t we’d be more than grateful for his foresight. Not to mention the fact that Jurgen wouldn’t be the only one reassured by its presence. ‘It certainly couldn’t hurt.’

Jurgen nodded thoughtfully. ‘Not if you’re standing behind it,’ he agreed.

Five

Our journey to the bottom of the mine took far less time than I’d anticipated. The upper levels turned out to have a tramway network, the trains of which were propelled by tightly coiled springs which turned the wheels as they slowly unwound, and we rattled and jolted our way well past the midpoint of our descent without having to use our legs at all.

After that we walked through a succession of steadily narrowing tunnels, all sloping downwards, as though we were being swallowed by the bedrock itself. At first we threaded our way through an unfeasible number of miners, all busily engaged in digging, sweating, carrying stuff, or operating machinery whose main purpose appeared to be the production of prodigious amounts of noise and gritty dust, which settled itself on and in everything, including our underwear. After a while, though, the number of workers around us diminished, the electrosconces in the walls becoming dimmer and less frequent, until both petered out altogether.

‘Lights,’ Platoon Sergeant Magot ordered, and the point man (or woman) of each squad clipped a luminator to the bayonet lugs of their lasguns, kindling them as they did so. With less fear of tripping over our own feet, and with no more workers to impede our progress, we picked up the pace a little, until the changing texture of the walls and rougher stone beneath our boot soles told us we’d reached the beginning of the natural fissures. Here we paused, just inside a cavern almost large enough to hold the full four dozen of us,[44] while Grifen consulted the map in her data-slate and began directing her units down the tunnel mouths opening off it.

‘First and second squads down that way, till you reach the first fork. First takes left, second right.’ She waited while the designated troopers split off from the milling mass and disappeared into the darkness, leaving the rest of us to appreciate the sudden acquisition of elbow room. ‘Fifth, you’re down there, tunnel on the right. Third, go with them, check out the side passage two hundred metres in. If it splits, one fireteam[45] goes each way, but stay in contact with one other. Fourth, you’re with me and the commissar,’ at which point a few of them shared self-satisfied grins with one another for some reason, ‘middle passage. Take point, command team will follow up. Any questions?’

There weren’t, of course, and as third and fifth squads disappeared down their designated hole in the ground I took a moment for a quiet word with Grifen.

‘Just what I would have done,’ I said, the options she’d chosen covering the maximum amount of ground in the minimum amount of time.

She never got the chance to reply, however, as it was at that point a group of eldar came charging out of the passageway we’d been about to set off down, firing as they came. Fourth squad took the brunt of the surprise attack, but rallied fast, returning fire even as they dived for cover, while Magot responded as forthrightly as ever by lobbing a grenade into the middle of their ranks. Apparently surprised by the effectiveness of our resistance the surviving xenos checked their advance and took cover, a constant stream of shuriken from their small-arms keeping our heads down as they did so – but not quite well enough to stop me from blazing away with my laspistol from behind my own rock more or less in their direction. Not because I expected to hit any of them, of course, but for the look of the thing.

‘Can you see any more of them?’ Grifen asked, and I shook my head, damned if I was going to risk losing it by popping up for a proper look.

‘There’s a couple taking cover by the tunnel mouth, sir,’ Jurgen said, his distinctive bouquet arriving beside me an instant ahead of his voice, to be followed almost at once by his physical presence. He shrugged, unslinging the melta from across his back. Apparently unconcerned by the hail of razor-edged discs hissing through the air around him, he steadied the heavy weapon against the rock I was crouching behind, and caressed the trigger. Forewarned, I just had time to close my eyes before a vivid flash punched through my eyelids, the acrid tang of ozone displaced Jurgen’s halitosis from my nostrils, and the distinctive thundercrack of ionising air rattled my inner ear. As I opened my eyes again my aide nodded with evident satisfaction, so far as I could tell through the after images still tap-dancing across my retina. ‘Should have found a bigger rock.’

Noting that the blizzard of shuriken appeared to have abated I risked a glance over the rim of my own refuge, noting the presence of something down by the tunnel entrance which resembled nothing so much as a piece of overdone barbecue with a crispy shell; perhaps fortunately I was too far distant to catch the smell.

‘That gave ’em something to think about,’ Jurgen said, with a faint air of smugness.

Unfortunately the thing they were thinking about seemed to be vengeance for their fallen comrades, and the amount of incoming fire in our direction immediately redoubled, the xenos no doubt having realised that my aide was the greatest threat among us. Which made my position right next to him rather less than comfortable.

Grifen was issuing urgent orders, recalling the scouting parties she’d despatched so short a time before, although the chances were they’d heard the noise already and would be double timing it back to aid us in any case. Whether they’d arrive before we were massacred, however, only the Emperor could tell.

There was little time to think about that, though, as a shadow moved in my peripheral vision, and I moved aside by reflex just in time to avoid a swipe from a faintly humming chainsword of a peculiar ossiform appearance. A pair of eldar had flanked us in the lee of the covering fire their comrades had laid down, no doubt intent on neutralising the threat of the melta in the most direct manner possible. I reacted instinctively, drawing my own weapon, and blocking a second blow as my assailant tried to decapitate me on the backswing. He or she – it was impossible to tell inside the green-and-purple armour – had the advantage of height, looming over me as I still crouched behind the boulder I’d used for cover, and while they retained it this could only end one way. So I took a swipe at their leg, which they anticipated, turning with inhuman grace to block the blow.

Which was just what I wanted, cracking off a shot with the laspistol still in my other hand while their attention was elsewhere. The las-bolt took the xenos in the throat, where the helmet joint made the armour relatively weak, and they fell back, their carapace pitted and charred. Whether the wound was fatal, or even incapacitating, I never found out. I brought my chainsword up as I surged to my feet, the teeth whining as they chewed through armour, flesh and bone.

‘Jurgen!’ I turned to help my aide, already anticipating the worst, but to my mingled surprise and relief he wasn’t dead, having blocked the first blow aimed at him with the melta he was carrying. Sparks flew from the rugged weapon as he twisted it to disengage the eldar’s chainblade, tugging them forwards off balance, and aiming a vicious blow at the crested helmet with the butt.

‘I’m all right, sir,’ he assured me, although that probably wasn’t going to be the case for much longer. He took up a guard position with the mangled weapon, while the eldar regained its footing and took another swipe at his torso.

‘Let’s keep it that way,’ I said, and shot his opponent several times at point-blank range before it had time to register my presence. A pattern of holes about the width of my palm appeared in the back plate of its armour, roughly where a human heart would have been; no doubt the eldar’s was somewhere else, although I seemed to have hit something equally vital, as crimson rivulets began to trickle down the green plating, and it folded to the ground.

I looked round, vaguely surprised not to have been shredded by the shuriken of the others now I was standing in plain view instead of crouching behind a rock, only to find that the other eldar had more urgent matters to contend with. First and fifth squads had re-emerged from the tunnels they’d been despatched down, firing as they came, and catching the xenos in a neat enfilade. Several fell at once, the survivors immediately turning their attention to retreat, taking their wounded with them and covering their departure down the fissure they’d emerged from with neatly disciplined covering fire.

‘So they are down there,’ Kasteen said, her voice attenuated by the tiny vox-receiver in my ear. Which was hardly surprising under the circumstances; if it hadn’t been for the more powerful set being carried by the vox-op[46] relaying the signal, I’d never have been able to get through to her at all with so much rock in the way. ‘Can you find out how many, and where they’re getting in?’

‘We’ll do our best,’ I assured her, being careful not to say anything which sounded like a guarantee. I turned to Grifen. ‘How are the casualties doing?’

It never hurt to let the troopers think I cared, especially when I was liable to be overheard; it meant they’d be watching my back when the las-bolts started flying.

She shook her head briefly. ‘Three dead, two critical. They’ve been stabilised, but they won’t last long if we don’t get them to a medicae. I’m sending them back with the rest of fourth squad.’

‘Good call,’ I said, to her evident relief and the quiet approval of all the troopers in earshot. ‘They’re at half-strength now anyway, and the casualties need them more than we do. Any injuries in second and fifth?’

‘Nothing serious,’ Magot reported, trotting over from the knot of troopers who’d just emerged from the tunnel mouth, making the place feel uncomfortably crowded again. ‘Couple of cuts and bruises, that’s all.’

‘Good,’ I said, with uncharacteristic sincerity. I was stuck with the job of eldar hunting in earnest now, and the more squaddies I had to hide behind the happier I’d feel. I glanced at the map again. ‘Looks like your original plan’s still the best,’ I told Grifen after a moment. She was astute enough to have worked that out for herself, and any excuse I could come up with to divert one of the other squads to clear the tunnel ahead of us would ring uncomfortably hollow, so, once again, I was trapped into living up to my dauntless reputation. ‘We’ll just have to take the middle tunnel alone.’

‘I was thinking the same thing myself,’ she agreed, neatly skewering my last hope of having some human shields in front of us, at least in the short term. She shrank the scale of the mapped area, surrounding it with a featureless expanse of terra incognita. ‘The vox-relays should let us know where the others are, at any rate, and if the outlying squads keep taking paths back towards the centre every time they reach a junction, we’ll probably meet up again further down.’

‘Sounds reasonable,’ I agreed. In my experience cavern systems did indeed link up with one another from time to time, and since the alternative was to believe that we were going to be pressing on bereft of even the possibility of help if we got into trouble, I preferred to cling to that hope. Even as I watched, one of the routes in the screen lengthened almost imperceptibly as first squad began their cautious advance beyond the limits of the map. I turned, looking as resolute as I could, while what was left of fourth squad shambled away in the direction we’d come from, taking their wounded with them.[47] ‘Might as well get on with it, then,’ I said, with an uneasy glance at the tunnel mouth which had so recently disgorged a party of eldar. Long and bitter experience told me we were going to find trouble down there, but of what kind, and how serious it would turn out to be, I still had no idea.

Paradoxically, the longer nothing happened the more uneasy I felt. The eldar we’d encountered had to have come from somewhere, and, since we’d found no side passages so far, wherever that was had to be ahead of us. My imagination began to picture a vast cavern in which an entire warhost had gathered, preparing even now to pour through these narrow tunnels like a flood through a storm drain, bursting out behind our carefully prepared defences to massacre us all. Of course, if that happened I’d already be dead, what was left of my carcass left to moulder in the dark for eternity, so at least it would be somebody else’s mess to sort out.

Which was little comfort. I moved with all the stealthy caution of a born-and-bred tunnel rat, but the troopers with me had no such innate advantage, and the confined space magnified every footfall, cough, muffled expletive and rattle of equipment to what sounded to me like the volume of an artillery barrage. In the end, despite my better judgement, I moved a little ahead of them so that my ears could function properly, the pattern of echoes being at least as reliable a guide to the location of the tunnel walls as the beam from the luminator one of the troopers carried.

Accordingly, I was the first to spot a faint flicker of stealthy movement in the blackness ahead of us, no more than a darker knot of shadow in the Stygian gloom. I held up a hand.

‘Wait one,’ I voxed, sotto voce, grateful for the tiny comm-beads everyone was equipped with;[48] raising my voice to shout a warning would only tip off whoever or whatever was lurking in the darkness ahead of us. ‘Possible contact.’

‘Numbers?’ Grifen responded equally tersely, and behind me I could hear the faint rattle of lasguns being readied. Faint enough not to have been noticed by whoever was lurking further down the passageway, with any luck, but there could be no guarantee of that, and I shrank against the tunnel wall, anticipating a volley of hissing eldar shuriken aimed at the source of the sound. But nothing happened, and after a moment of breathing deeply to slow my hammering heart, I reached down cautiously to loosen the laspistol in its holster and the chainsword scabbarded at my waist.

‘Can’t tell,’ I said, peering into the gloom ahead of me. ‘Douse the light.’

The trooper carrying it complied at once, plunging us into even greater darkness, although since I had my back to him and had had the sense to close my eyes before he did so, I suppose I was less affected than most of my companions. Sure enough, as my vision adjusted, I began to see darker swirls of blackness clotting the gloom ahead, thrown into relief by a faint glow in the far distance. Almost without thinking I drew the laspistol, its familiar weight a reassuring presence in my hand, but left the chainsword in its scabbard. There was nothing to cut at or parry in the immediate vicinity, and if I needed to shoot in a hurry I’d be better off giving that matter my full attention.

‘Several,’ I said eventually, giving up the attempt to assess an accurate headcount, and inching my way forward with the greatest reluctance in an attempt to get a better view. But at any rate who or whatever it was seemed to be heading away from us, for which I thanked the Emperor wholeheartedly in an undertone.

‘Say again?’ Grifen queried, and I belatedly realised I’d left the vox-channel open.

‘Stay alert,’ I said, quite possibly the single most superfluous piece of advice I’d ever given. ‘And watch your step.’ Though quite how they were going to do that without being able to see their feet was beyond me.

Reasoning that the command squad was either going to have to put the light back on or stumble around in the dark making enough noise to rouse a hungover ork,[49] I opened up the distance a little further, grateful for the sombre hues of my Commissarial uniform, which would render me all but invisible in darkness this profound. True, whoever it was I’d spotted had apparently disappeared, but that didn’t mean they weren’t close by, and right now I’d take whatever advantages I could get.

My aide’s unmistakable aroma assaulted my nostrils, and his voice emerged from the darkness not far behind my left shoulder. ‘Should we take a look, do you think, sir?’

‘We should,’ I agreed, reluctantly, as in this sort of situation it was pretty much what we always did, however much I might have preferred to head in the opposite direction as rapidly as possible. In my experience it’s what you don’t know that can kill you, or at least put a considerable crimp in your day, and it’s always safer in the long run to take the immediate risk of finding out precisely what it is you’re up against. I tapped the comm-bead again. ‘Jurgen and I are moving up to take a look,’ I told Grifen. ‘Give us a couple of minutes, and follow up if you don’t hear anything.’ I paused, just long enough to make my next remark sound like a joke. ‘Feel free to follow up at once if you hear any shooting or screaming, though.’

‘Will do, commissar. Good luck.’ And that sentiment sounded gratifyingly genuine. Truth to tell I found myself thumbing my palm[50] as we set off, despite the conviction that Him on Earth probably had a great deal more to worry about than keeping my miserable hide unperforated.

Though Jurgen was undeniably less stealthy than I was, and a good deal easier to keep track of in the dark, he’d had enough practice at sneaking around over the years to be almost as good as me at avoiding the notice of people determined to kill us, and we were soon some distance away from Grifen and her command squad. From the pattern of his breathing, which always deepened when he was carrying something unwieldy, I was fairly sure he was holding the melta ready for immediate use, which was both comforting and vaguely alarming. I immediately resolved to make sure I remained slightly behind him, just to be on the safe side.

The faint glow I’d noticed from further up the corridor was intensifying as we got nearer the source, but somehow remained diffuse, striking soft-edged shadows from the jagged and broken walls, tinged with delicate pastel hues which seemed to shift subtly every time I felt on the verge of identifying their colours. It was oddly relaxing, only my itching palms and well-developed sense of paranoia maintaining the level of alertness the situation demanded. I felt a flash of déjà vu: this definitely reminded me of something, but the memory remained elusive, skittering for cover as I tried to bring it to mind.

Jurgen sniffed. ‘Something smells a bit funny,’ he said, oblivious as always to the irony. I inhaled cautiously through my nostrils, suddenly aware that my usual method of keeping track of him in low light was no longer working. He was right; the air was freighted with a faint and subtle fragrance, which, once again, seemed maddeningly familiar but which my memory refused to pin down. ‘Can’t quite place it, though.’

‘Do you think you’ve smelled it before?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice as casual as possible.

My aide nodded, his silhouette now a thickening shadow in the twilight surrounding us. ‘Can’t think when, though. Nowhere good, mind.’

‘I think I have too,’ I admitted, fighting off an entirely inappropriate sense of wellbeing. The scent had a faintly narcotic effect, which would have been pleasant under most other circumstances, but which was potentially lethal crawling around an underground labyrinth stuffed with enemies; anything which dulled the senses and slowed our reaction times was a clear and immediate threat. There was nothing I could do about it, however, not having had the foresight to bring a respirator with me, so I contented myself with breathing as shallowly as possible through the mouth, and hoped that would be enough.

‘Anything yet?’ Grifen asked, after another couple of minutes had ticked past on my chronometer, although it could have been twice or half that to my subtly befuddled senses. I shook my head instinctively, before reason reminded me that she couldn’t see the gesture: another bad sign. Returning the laspistol to its holster for a moment I removed my sash, and retied it around my nose and mouth – probably a futile gesture, but better than nothing. ‘Should we move up?’

‘Hold position,’ I voxed back, drawing my sidearm once more, feeling a sudden rush of relief which surprised me with its intensity as soon as the weapon was back in my hand. My paranoia was definitely stepping up a gear, and I found myself wondering if the peculiar scent, which my makeshift mask had now muted a little, had some psychotropic qualities – perhaps it was even a weapon of some kind. Well, if it was I’d already been exposed to it, so there was no point worrying too much about that, but there was no telling what effect it would have on the troopers, and the last thing I needed was a bunch of disorientated Guardsmen with lasguns standing right behind me if things were about to go ploin shaped. Friendly fire most definitely isn’t, despite the name.

‘Holding,’ Grifen said, her tone making it abundantly clear how much she didn’t like the idea, so I thought I’d better be a little more forthcoming.

‘There’s something strange about the air down here. Not sure what, but it could be something toxic. It’s making us feel a bit light-headed.’ I glanced across at Jurgen, who seemed his usual imperturbable self, but who said or did nothing to contradict me. ‘I’d prefer not to expose anyone else to it unless we have to.’

‘Understood,’ Grifen acknowledged. ‘Pull back as soon as you can. We’ll vox a request to be met by a medicae team as soon as we get topside again, to be on the safe side.’

‘Good call,’ I said, somewhat comforted by the fact that if whatever was causing the smell didn’t turn out to be immediately lethal, and whoever or whatever was lurking down here didn’t finish the job for it the moment they got the chance, the odds of me escaping any lingering ill effects had just substantially increased. Not to mention adding incrementally to the illusion that I cared about the troopers watching my back. Encouraged, I returned my attention to the matter at hand. ‘Can you hear that?’ I asked Jurgen.

He nodded. ‘Sounds like voices. Can’t make out what they’re saying, though.’

‘Me neither,’ I admitted, keeping my own as low as I could. A faint murmuration was echoing through the tunnels, still muted, but undeniably growing in volume. When it first started I couldn’t have said, distracted by my conversation with Grifen, the sense-dulling effects of whatever was lingering in the atmosphere down here – or, probably, both. But it was definitely there.

I remained still, listening intently, all my old underhiver’s instincts rushing to the fore. The echoes were overlapping, distorted by the tunnel walls, but there were clearly a number of voices – how many I couldn’t discern. More than me and Jurgen, though, that was for sure. Probably more than the command squad too, if only because, in my experience, when things decide to go wrong they never do so by halves.

‘At least a dozen,’ I concluded after a moment, resolving to err a little on the pessimistic side, as any subsequent surprises were more likely to be relatively encouraging. It was hard to be sure, though, as the sound was curiously uniform, rather than the choppy gabble of overlapping conversations you normally get when a large number of people have been herded together in a confined space. Perhaps because of the way the peculiar scent and the muted glow surrounding us were dulling my senses, it sounded almost soothing, like the gentle wash of waves on a beach.

‘We’re pressing on,’ I voxed Grifen after a moment. I could see no good reason to linger here any longer, and the sooner we found out what we were facing the sooner Jurgen and I could make our way back to the surface, citing the need to report back to Kasteen, while her platoon took care of whatever little surprises the eldar had waiting down here.

Which would have been fine, except that the surprise, when it came, was to change the entire situation, pitching us into a battle more desperate than I could have imagined.

Six

The light suffusing the tunnels intensified by almost imperceptible increments as we went on, which I found a mixed blessing to say the least. On the one hand we could see where we were going, and were able to make better time, but on the other we’d be easier to spot if our shadowy enemies had left any sentries behind. Moreover, the more I could see of our surroundings, the more uneasy I became. Though the cleft we followed was undeniably a natural formation, the floor and walls too rough to be artificial, the sharp, jagged edges I would have expected to see were missing, every undulation smooth and rounded beneath the soles of my boots, or brushing smoothly against the sleeve of my greatcoat. That simply wasn’t natural, but whether the effect had been achieved by tools and long labour, or by more sinister means like warpcraft, I couldn’t imagine. From time to time the path we followed skirted deep clefts in the earth, clinging to narrow ledges, from which carelessly dislodged pebbles clattered into measureless depths. Every time this happened I tensed, expecting the faint shadow of whoever or whatever we pursued to pause, notice our presence and retaliate in some fashion, but they never did, simply hurrying on ahead completely oblivious to our presence.

Perhaps any noise we made was simply masked by the sound in the distance, which continued to grow in intensity, rising and falling, insinuating itself gradually into my brain as though the rock itself were infused with it. Intricate harmonies intertwined with one another, and it gradually began to dawn on me that it wasn’t speech I was listening to at all, but some kind of choral music.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Jurgen took my arm as I stumbled, light-headed from the intoxicating scent and on the verge of getting lost in the complexities of the melody, almost pitching myself headlong into the abyss. As he did so the sound changed abruptly. Suddenly it seemed sinister, greedy, the melodic runs twining around one another like a nest of hissing serpents. I shook my head, clearing it, inhaling the unusually welcome odour of his seldom-changed socks as though it were pure oxygen.

‘That singing was starting to get to me,’ I admitted. There was definitely something hypnotic about it, almost predatory, and my sense of unease grew exponentially.

My aide nodded, with a grimace of distaste. ‘Sounds like ice weasels on heat,’ he said, something I was quite willing to take his word for.[51] The way my perceptions had so suddenly changed could have only one explanation: the sound which had so beguiled me was somehow linked to the warp, and I was now close enough to Jurgen to be reaping the benefits of his protective aura. That thought shivered its way down my spine like liquid ice, and I tapped the comm-bead in my ear again, on the verge of transmitting a warning to everyone else down here.

Then I hesitated. How could I warn Grifen and the others we were facing some warp-spawned horror without exposing Jurgen’s peculiar gift – something Amberley would take a very dim view of. Things got sticky enough if I was a bit late for a dinner engagement,[52] so her reaction to having her most valuable and secret asset exposed was something I really didn’t want to contemplate. If my suspicions were true, the only way I could plausibly claim to know about it was if I’d witnessed some piece of warpcraft at first hand.

Not a comforting thought, but it made the necessity of finding out exactly what we were up against even more urgent.

I took a deep breath, almost regretting it given how close I was still standing to my aide, and slowed my hammering heart. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s find out who’s strangling the cats.’

Jurgen nodded, looking faintly bemused, but at least didn’t ask which cats and which tunnel they were lurking down, as I’d half suspected he would the moment I’d voiced the metaphor.

‘At least they’ll shut up if we shoot them,’ he said, pragmatic as always, and I found myself nodding in agreement. Right now, with that infernal dirge gnawing at my synapses, the suggestion seemed to have a lot going for it. Of course chanting and warpcraft tended to go together like salt grox and a bap, so the sooner we found out what was going on and disrupted it – or, better still, sent a couple of squads of Grifen’s people in to disrupt it while I called out encouraging platitudes from a safe distance – the better.

‘Right,’ I said, pausing only to check my chainsword once again, being reassured to find it still loose enough in the scabbard for a fast draw and the speed selector already flicked over to maximum revs. ‘Let’s go and put a stop to this.’

A few hundred metres further on, we rounded another gentle curve in the rock wall to find ourselves facing the entrance to a cavern. Clearly once a natural cleft in the side of the tunnel – which continued on into the distance towards Emperor knew what – it had been enlarged and elaborated into an organic-seeming orifice, decorated with carvings which positively oozed sensual decadence.

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck beginning to bristle. I’d seen its like on Adumbria, and in a few other secret corners of the galaxy where the decadent minions of the Great Enemy gathered to worship their god of excess and depravity. All at once I remembered where I’d smelled that cloying scent before, in the temples of Slaanesh I’d had an invariably reluctant hand in cleansing. We walked illuminated by the flickering pastel light that spilled from the cleft ahead of us.

Which undoubtedly explained why the shade of Emeli had begun to slither into my dreams again of late, although up until then I’d been putting it down to Kasteen’s remark about our time on Adumbria during the briefing a few days before. With a shrine to her patron power pulsing beneath our feet like a malignant tumour in the bowels of the mine, it was hardly surprising that its psychic influence would seep out, looking for some way to manifest itself.[53]

I tapped the comm-bead in my ear, heedless of my earlier scruples. This was evidence of heresy no one could have missed; moreover, it was an immediate threat which had to be contained. In my experience, chanting in temples full of heretics never ended well, particularly for the chanters – which only went to show how barmy they were to begin with.

‘Cain to all squads,’ I voxed, keeping the tremor of bowel-clenching terror out of my voice with a little more effort than usual, ‘home in on my signal. Contact with heretics, repeat, heretics, invoking warpcraft. I need backup and a priest ASAP. Respond.’

I listened hopefully, but heard nothing beyond the dispiriting hiss of static. It seemed the twisting tunnels had put too much rock between us and the command squad’s vox-relay for my signal to get through, although the absence of an answer didn’t necessarily mean that no one else had heard it – a faint hope I clung to even in the face of reason assuring me it was absurd. Grifen was good at what she did, though, and was bound to send someone to find out what had happened to us after a while. I just had to hope Jurgen and I would still be in one piece when they turned up.

‘No answer?’ Jurgen asked after a moment, although if there had been he would have heard it in his own earpiece[54] at the same time as me.

I shook my head. ‘Nothing. Looks like we’re on our own.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ Jurgen said, truthfully enough, with a phlegmatic shrug. ‘Probably won’t be the last one, either.’ Which, given the way our lives had been so far, was a sucker bet if ever I’d heard one.

Taking heart from his obvious assumption that we’d survive this little setback, as we had done so many others, I drew my chainsword and pressed the activator, the sound of the weapon powering up masked by the chanting. Though every instinct I possessed was urging me to turn and flee, my rational mind was prevailing – at least for the nonce, although I must own in all honesty that it was a close-run thing. There was simply no telling what the heretics were up to, which meant at least getting a good look before making a run for it.

‘You’re not wrong there,’ I agreed, peering cautiously round the edge of the cleft. The cavern was a large one, I could tell as much by the way the voices echoed, but beyond that I couldn’t discern a thing. The pale light distorted everything, sight and sound, shining through an obscenely shaped hole at the end of a short connecting tunnel, the walls of which had been embellished by carvings I was careful not to look at too closely. I beckoned for Jurgen to follow me. ‘Stay close.’ The closer the better, if I was to receive the second-hand benefit of his gift. ‘And keep the melta handy.’

‘Already am, sir,’ he assured me, moving up to take point, the clumsy heavy weapon aimed down the passageway ahead of us. I followed on, the whining of my chainsword echoing back from the walls surrounding us like insects on a summer afternoon.

For a moment everything beyond Jurgen was occulted by his shoulders, then he moved aside as he reached the end of the tunnel, and I was able to see the whole cavern for myself. Even prepared as I thought I was, it came as a shock.

It was indeed a temple to the god of excess, and a long-established one too, if I was any judge. Easily the size of a scrumball pitch, the stalagmites and stalactites had been carved into representations of acts of debauchery which would have turned the stomach of a libertine, the depicted revellers presided over for the most part by a curious androgynous figure.[55] It was hard to be sure, though, as my eyes glanced from it like a las-bolt from the skull of an ork.[56] Several other tunnel mouths were visible around the walls, all of them embellished in the manner of the one we’d just entered by. Towards the middle of the roughly circular space, richly ornamented rugs and carpets had been spread, their colours dulled by the dust and detritus of the mine. On them were scattered pillows and cushions, chaises and beds, all occupied by people in various stages of undress. Those most fully clothed were generally wearing the kind of utility garments I’d seen most often on the mine workers I’d come across, although others were partially clad in the manner of Administratum adepts, household servants, minor members of the local nobility and, inevitably, a few representatives of the local defence force. No wonder they’d been so frakking useless. I rapidly lost count of their numbers, and for all I knew there were at least as many again lurking in the more dimly lit shadows of the cavern.

Strangely, whatever debauched practices they were indulging in, every single one of them was chanting as they did it, producing the sound which had brought Jurgen and I there in the first place – though how they found the breath to spare was beyond me.

The light we’d followed came from a glowing ball of energy, rotating slowly above the magister of the coven, who seemed to be directing the chant; now and then a tendril of it would flicker down, stroking lazily across the bodies of the orgiasts below, apparently drawing fresh sustenance from the contact. I felt an instinctive surge of revulsion at the sight, which reminded me of nothing so much as a jellyfish whose dangling tendrils provided it with food.

‘That’s not right,’ Jurgen said, reacting to the sight in his usual straightforward manner. He braced the melta. ‘Want me to take a crack at it?’

I hesitated. There was no telling what effect the ravening blast of thermal energy might have on the strange, pulsating sphere, but doing nothing was hardly an option either. Even as I watched, the air seemed to ripple around it – then an arm appeared, somehow managing to seem shapely and sensual despite ending in a claw a crab would envy. A shoulder followed it, then a head and torso, curiously feminine despite the chitinous exoskeleton partially covering it. A chorus of welcome and delight swept across the summoners, while their leader abased himself before the abomination taking form in front of him.

I must admit, the surge of horrified disgust I felt at the sight of the thing was partially eclipsed by one of relief: whatever this warp-spawned monstrosity was, it wasn’t Emeli, whose daemonic form was far too deeply etched on my memory not to have been recognised at once.

‘Fire!’ I instructed, squeezing off a few shots with my laspistol at the heart of the vortex as I spoke, and closing my eyes as I did so. It didn’t do a whole lot for my accuracy, of course, but did prevent me from being dazzled by the flash of actinic light from the melta as Jurgen obeyed the instruction with enthusiasm. The thing shrieked, the cultists stopped whatever it was they were doing, and a ululating howl of anger replaced the intricate roundelay of their chanting. ‘Again!’

Our only chance, as I knew from previous encounters with denizens of the warp, was to prevent the thing from gaining a proper foothold in the material world, and the best way to do that was to inflict as much damage as we could on it before it managed to materialise completely.

‘Sorry, sir.’ My aide dropped the heavy weapon, reaching for his lasgun even before it hit the floor. ‘It’s frakked. Lucky to have got even one shot off before it shorted.’ And, indeed, sparks were still dancing around the rent the eldar Guardian’s chainsword had gouged in the melta’s casing.

‘Jurgen.’ I became abruptly aware that while our attention was on the daemon the cultists had begun to react to our presence, and not with glad cries of welcome either. ‘Pull back.’ A small tidal wave of degenerate humanity was surging towards us, brandishing what makeshift weapons they could find,[57] and a small preliminary volley of thrown rocks pattered around our feet.

‘Very good, sir.’ My aide glanced around us. ‘Pull back to where, exactly?’

Outlying elements of the crowd were already appearing behind us, confirming my guess that there had been others elsewhere in the cavern when we arrived, although given the spectacle in the middle of it we can hardly be blamed for having failed to notice them at the time.

‘Good question,’ I conceded, feeling more than a little foolish. ‘Back to the tunnel we came in by. We’ll have to clear the way first, though.’

‘Clearing the way now,’ Jurgen said, unleashing a hail of las-bolts into the tide of howling insanity closing in around us. ‘But it’s not helping much.’

‘Indeed,’ I agreed, backing into the short corridor he’d managed to open in the surrounding bodies. It was already closing up around us like a healing wound, fresh fanatics hurling themselves into the gap made by their fallen fellow acolytes, leaving us almost as far from the tunnel we’d entered by as before. I swung the chainsword through a standard defensive pattern, feeling the teeth bite as the front rank closed to striking distance, reaping a gruesome harvest of viscera and blood – but still they came on. I squeezed the trigger of my laspistol, and a screaming face, so distorted with bloodlust that the gender of its owner was indeterminate, exploded like an offal-packed balloon.

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Jurgen said, flicking the selector of his lasgun to full auto. He swung it in a short, las-bolt-spitting arc, felling a swathe of our attackers as they surged forwards, but as before there were always more to replace them; it was like punching holes in a river.

‘My sentiments exactly,’ I agreed, feeling our backs touch, our instinctive rapport in situations like this taking over without conscious thought by either of us. I risked a glance at the claw-handed, bird-footed daemon, which by now had come fully through into the real world, but which for the moment seemed happy enough dismembering a few of the cultists who had rushed to embrace it. Too busy with trying to fend off its acolytes to get a good shot at it, I nevertheless found myself unable to resist the horror-induced impulse to send a couple of las-bolts in its direction.

Which, of course, was a big mistake, simply reminding it that Jurgen and I were a threat. Abandoning its blood-slick toys, which crawled beseechingly after it bleating their disappointment at being so cavalierly abandoned, the thing bounded towards us, tearing through the crowd of cultists like Jurgen through a smorgasbord. I barely had time to raise my chainsword, fending off a snapping claw which lunged for my face; the teeth whined, biting deep. A gush of foul-smelling ichor gouted from the wound, and the thing recoiled, an expression which would have denoted puzzlement in a human flickering across its hideous visage.[58] Clearly it hadn’t been expecting to be injured so badly, and stepped back, howling mellifluously, its flesh and chitin starting to knit together as it did so. I potted it in the face and body with the laspistol, seeing the cauterised craters fade and vanish in a heartbeat – clearly Jurgen’s abilities weakened it at close quarters, but not enough for anything we had with us to damage it sufficiently to force it back into the warp. The melta might have done the job, perhaps, but it now lay at Jurgen’s feet, as far out of reach as if we’d left it back in his quarters. Now he had a heap of fallen cultists in front of him, impeding the progress of those still intent on attacking to clamber over, he was able to fire in short, efficient bursts – but if he stopped to pick up the melta, he’d be overwhelmed in seconds.

No sooner had the thought occurred to me than Jurgen spoke.

‘Running dry, sir. Should have fixed the bayonet.’ The words were hardly out of his mouth before the intermittent crackle of his lasgun ceased abruptly. ‘That’s it, I’m out.’ And with no time to reload before they reached us. Reversing the weapon in a single smooth motion he lashed out with the butt of it, catching a portly middle-aged man across the bridge of the nose with a crack of breaking cartilage and a spray of blood. As the fellow fell backwards a young woman crawled forwards, grabbed my aide’s ankle and tugged, attempting to pull him off balance. She might even have succeeded, dragging him down to be overwhelmed by the horde of fanatics surrounding us, if I hadn’t anticipated the movement and lopped her hand off at the wrist in the nick of time. She pouted up at me.

‘That’s just mean.’

‘So’s this,’ I said, putting a las-bolt through her brain, or her skull at least, and turning to eviscerate another couple of cultists who were trying to hit me in the head with rocks they’d picked up from somewhere.

Our situation was desperate, there was no denying that; though Jurgen and I must have downed over a dozen of the cultists by now there still seemed no end to them, and their sheer numbers were bound to tell in the long run. Though I could hold them off with the chainsword for a few moments longer I was bound to tire sooner or later, and if Jurgen fell they’d be able to get behind me. I toyed briefly with the notion of passing him the laspistol, but he was already occupied walloping heretics with his gun butt, and distracting him seemed like a bad idea.

The daemon was circling us now, beyond its shield of expendable acolytes, reminding me disconcertingly of a felinoid catching sight of a rat hole – evidently wary of approaching Jurgen too closely, but I had no doubt that if its cat’s paws succeeded in killing him it would be on me like a rash.

And that was looking more and more likely by the second. I tried the comm-bead again, but as I’d expected, heard nothing; no hope of a last-minute reprieve from our comrades, it seemed.

At that moment, however, help arrived from a most unexpected source. A party of eldar bounded into the cavern from one of the tunnel mouths we’d noticed on our arrival, brandishing spears which flickered and glowed with arcane sorceries. Their armour, though sharing the green and purple colours of the ones we’d encountered before, was richly decorated with arcane symbols, and obscured by cloaks which seemed to swirl around them rather more than the air currents in the cavern would normally account for. One, in particular, stood out from its fellows, both its raiment and archaic weapon more richly ornamented than the others. As one, they flung their spears at the cultists who had turned to meet them, spitting several, but leaving themselves unarmed apart from the pistols holstered at their waists. I expected them to draw these at once to defend themselves with, but to my surprise the spears turned in mid-air and returned to the hands of their wielders.

‘Neat trick,’ Jurgen said.

I shot a glance at the daemon, which seemed almost as disconcerted by this turn of events as I was. It bounded towards the eldar, clearly identifying them as the greater threat; tempted as I was to encourage it on its way with a las-bolt to the back, I forbore, partly because attracting its attention again seemed foolish under the circumstances, and partly because I was still fighting for my life against the apparently never-ending tide of heretics, who seemed to have abandoned all sense of self-preservation. I opened up a small gap in the oncoming crowd with a flurry of las-bolts, only to see it fill again in a handful of heartbeats, and swung the chainsword once more, ripping open flesh and pulverising bone. It was tempting to try lopping a few heads off, but I kept the blade low. My opponents were all shapes and sizes, of differing height, and ducking and weaving in an attempt to get past my guard into the bargain – not to mention having trouble keeping their footing in all the gore and viscera I’d spilled so far. The last thing I needed was for one of them to get under my blade by accident – one opening was all they required. The moment Jurgen or I were injured they’d be on us like a swarm of sump rats, bearing us down by sheer force of numbers, and the two of us would be finished.

So thinking, I risked another glance at the eldar, who were turning to face the daemon. Once again their spears flew, slicing through the warp-spawned abomination one after another, ripping it into ichorous chunks which twitched and began to flow together – but the whirling blades, it soon became clear, could inflict damage more quickly than the hideous thing could regenerate it.

Not that this fortuitous turn of events was going to do me any good; intent on parrying a blow with some sort of narcotic dispenser being wielded by a young man with a glazed expression, I tripped against one of the bodies I’d felled. I raised the chainsword instinctively, shearing through his arm just below the elbow, and the metal sphere fell to the ground, trailing the severed limb at the end of its chain. It bumped against my shoulder on the way down, adding insult to injury in the shape of a scorch mark on my sleeve, and jolting my arm so strongly that I would certainly have lost the laspistol if it hadn’t been for the firm grip afforded by my augmetic fingers. Despite my best efforts, and the sash still tied across my face, I got a good lungful of its noxious contents too; my head swam as I stumbled, unable to remain on my feet, and fell heavily onto one knee. Fortunately the impact was cushioned by one of the bodies I’d felled, so I just landed on something unpleasantly squishy instead of cracking a patella against the unyielding rock.

Nonetheless, the damage had been done. Before I could regain my balance the shrieking fanatics were on me, bearing me to the ground, raining blows against me with foot, fist and a variety of makeshift clubs. I tried to cut my way free with the chainsword, and got off another couple of wild shots with the laspistol, but my arms had been seized by howling and giggling madmen, and I knew with a sudden, cold certainty that, barring the personal intercession of the Emperor Himself, which hardly seemed likely, my last moments had almost certainly come.

Then the pressure eased, the bodies weighing me down abruptly pulling away, while the cavern resounded to the unmistakable hiss-crack of bolt pistols being fired, along with the lighter crackling of laspistols. Fighting my way upright, relieving the pressure of the bodies attempting to pin me down by a couple of swipes with the chainsword (which, to my vague surprise, I’d managed to retain a grip on), I stared at our deliverers with undisguised astonishment. Half a dozen human figures, led by an unusually striking blonde woman who seemed vaguely familiar, were charging into the cavern through the same entrance the eldar had used, firing as they came – but these were no Imperial Guard troopers. All were dressed like civilians. For a moment recognition eluded me – then, when it hit, surprise was replaced by absolute astonishment.

‘Amberley?’ I asked, my jaw slackening like a cartoon yokel. ‘What in the name of the warp are you doing here?’

‘Ciaphas?’ To my relief, she looked equally taken aback to see me, although, being Amberley, she didn’t let it show for long, immediately adopting the air of tolerant amusement which suited her so well. ‘This probably sounds like a peculiar question, but where the frak are we?’

Seven

‘Drechia,’ I said, not bothering to press her any further about what she was doing here; she was an inquisitor, after all, and popping up unexpectedly was the kind of thing they did. ‘Fighting an eldar invasion.’

‘Drechia,’ Mott, her savant, said, in his usual dry, reedy tone, compulsively voicing the torrent of information cascading through his augmented cerebellum in response to the name. ‘Capital of the Avernus subsystem in the halo of Ironfound, given limited autonomy under Subsector Gubernatorial Decree dated 645 087 M41–’[59]

‘Not now, Caractacus,’ Amberley said, potting another heretic who’d been rude enough to try to interrupt us by attempting to stove her head in with a rock. The fellow’s ribcage exploded as the bolt from her pistol detonated, adding another dilapidated corpse to the pile surrounding us, and she returned her attention to me. ‘What eldar?’

‘Those ones for a start,’ I said, pointing to the spear-slinging psykers, who’d pretty much seen off the daemon by this point. It made a last attempt to rally, ripping one of the eldritch javelins which had it impaled through the chest away with a spasm of its claws, but the glittering shaft simply turned in mid-air and renewed the attack, skewering it through the left eye socket instead. The others returned to their owners, who held them expectantly, but hesitated, instead of throwing them again instantly as I’d expected. ‘What are they waiting for?’

‘To see what we do, probably,’ Amberley said, aiming her bolt pistol at the shrieking abomination and pulling the trigger. The explosive projectile detonated, vaporising half of what was left of its chest, and it wavered for a moment before solidifying again. I followed up with a couple of las-bolts of my own, and that seemed to do the trick. The first gouged another wound, which, Emperor be praised, didn’t seem to be regenerating. As the second struck, a fraction of a second later, the ghastly thing vanished altogether with a crack of imploding air, leaving the shining spear which had pierced it floating freely in the air. The weapon promptly returned to the hand of the eldar leader, who stood watching us impassively. Amberley called out to her little group of acolytes. ‘Flicker, Zemmie, finish up here.’

Truth to tell, however, there was little left to finish up by this time, most of the surviving cultists having fled into the tunnels the moment the daemon was thrown back into the warp, whatever influence it may have had over them now broken. Her entire entourage seemed to be there, or at least everyone I remembered from our last little escapade together; for all I knew there had been others in the intervening time who hadn’t been quite as lucky or skilful. I’d seen several of them come and go over the years, Inquisitorial service not being a particularly safe occupation even by the standards of the life I’d led, but these five had been particularly lucky, tenacious or skilled, and I nodded a greeting to each of them. There wasn’t time for more, and I’d have the chance to converse properly with them later (or most of them anyway, Rakel the sanctioned psyker being away with the fae most of the time) – assuming the eldar didn’t just turn around and kill us all in the next few seconds, of course.

I glanced at Rakel, hoping for some clue as to their intentions, as her precognitive flashes had saved my life on more than one occasion – but she was simply muttering to herself as usual, staring at Jurgen as though he were Horus incarnate, and keeping as far away from him as possible.[60] Pelton, the former arbitrator, was potting fleeing heretics with unfailing accuracy and professional detachment, while his protégé Zemelda, a former vendor of street snacks who’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, was matching her mentor shot for shot with undisguised glee. The only member of the party not too preoccupied to return my greeting was Yanbel the tech-priest, who raised a mechadendrite in response before returning his attention to what looked like the screen of an auspex. Mott’s eyes were still glazed as he catalogued information about the world we stood on, or possibly anything that might be useful in evading sudden attacks by eldar psykers.

Which reminded me. I turned to my aide, who was breathing a little heavily but seemed otherwise none the worse for wear. ‘Are you all right, Jurgen?’ I asked.

‘Fine, sir.’ He nodded a greeting of his own to Amberley, as though this bizarre encounter was as commonplace as passing a near neighbour on the stairs. ‘Afternoon, miss.’

‘Jurgen. You’re looking well.’ Which I suppose was true by his standards, although by most people’s it was a statement requiring a considerable stretch of the imagination.

‘Thank you, miss. So are you.’ The social niceties dispensed with, he snapped a fresh powercell into his lasgun, and glanced in my direction. ‘Do you want us to shoot the pointy-ears?’

‘Not at the moment, thank you. Let’s try talking first.’ The inquisitor took an outwardly confident step towards the little group of xenos, holstering her weapon and holding up her hand to show it was empty. Apart, that was, from the jokaero digital needler in her ring, which had been the last surprise in the lives of several people and things who had thought her unarmed over the years. ‘They’ve had plenty of opportunity to attack us already, if they wanted to.’

Which was a fair point. I felt my palms tingling again. None of the other eldar we’d seen since our arrival on this Emperor-forsaken iceball would have hesitated for a moment before going for our throats. I stood as close to Jurgen as I could, and kept my weapons in my hands.

‘If they attack the inquisitor, fire at once.’ Pelton’s voice was in my comm-bead, low and urgent, too seasoned a professional to risk alerting the enemy by calling across to me. In the early days of my association with Amberley I might have wondered how he was able to break into a secure Imperial Guard channel, but I’d soon learned that Inquisitorial override codes were even more comprehensive than the ones I had access to through the Commissariat. Now he’d run out of heretics to cleanse, his attention was entirely on watching Amberley’s back – as it should have been, of course.

‘You can count on it,’ I said. She’d probably survive a sudden attack, the displacer field she habitually carried when expecting trouble teleporting her several metres in a random direction in response to a sudden impact or energy burst, but the thing was ancient, and not entirely reliable.[61] It would remove her from the line of fire, though, giving Jurgen and me a clear shot at the eldar, which sounded like a positive result to me.

‘Zemmie, go left, try and get behind them. Yanbel, Mott, go the other way. Rakel – just try not to get shot.’

‘Too many ways,’ the psyker cut in, helpful as always, presumably in case it had escaped our notice that we were in the middle of a labyrinth, while the savant and the tech-priest moved to comply with surprising efficiency.[62] ‘They’re all tangled, and lead to blood.’

Which didn’t sound all that good to me, but then not a lot she said ever did.[63] I shrugged, and took a firmer grasp of my weapons, wondering if I’d be able to parry one of those spear things if it got chucked in my direction, and dismissed the thought at once. If I ever needed to find out I’d be reacting on instinct – too fast for conscious thought, anyway – and the one thing guaranteed to ensure I’d fail would be worrying about it beforehand.

‘Stand down, all of you,’ Amberley voxed, with a trace of asperity. ‘This one’s a farseer. He’ll have anticipated every move you could possibly make anyway.’

Personally, I was frakked if I could tell the difference, but xenos of one sort or another were her area of expertise, so I wasn’t about to argue. If she said the one in the particularly elaborate armour was a farseer, then a farseer he was.

‘What’s a farseer?’ Jurgen asked, saving me the bother, although I had little enough need with these people to save face by pretending to knowledge I didn’t have. It certainly wouldn’t have fooled Amberley, and probably wouldn’t fool any of the others either.

‘Weavers of fate, weavers of time,’ Rakel said, in the peculiar sing-song intonation which generally indicated that she’d long since gone off the deep end, and was placidly treading water in a galaxy of her own. ‘Pull the thread, and follow where it leads.’

‘They’re powerful precogs,’ Mott said, apparently relieved at being asked a direct question that didn’t involve too many supplementary bounces down the quincunx of information cluttering up his head. ‘They see a myriad of possible futures unfolding from every second they experience, and try to manipulate events to reach a desired outcome.’

‘So how come they haven’t won the war already?’ Jurgen asked.

Mott’s eyes began to glaze over, and I stepped in hastily to forestall a flood of battlefield analysis, probably going back centuries.

‘Because they haven’t completed their plans yet,’ I said, then thought about the implications of that, which weren’t comforting. ‘And because the soldiers of the Emperor are more than a match for them anyway.’

‘True,’ Jurgen agreed, nodding, and dislodging small flecks of grime from his neck against his shirt collar as he did so. ‘And a las-bolt to the head’ll fell a psyker just the same as anyone else.’

Which wasn’t entirely true, as I knew from personal experience, but it wasn’t a bad principle to keep in mind.

‘No one’s shooting anyone unless I say so,’ Amberley said, in a tone I knew well enough not to venture to contradict. She was over halfway to the eldar by now, advancing under the impassive gaze of their blank-visaged helmets. An almost palpable air of expectation hung around them as she approached, and I found myself wondering if the farseer had already decided the outcome of this encounter, and was merely going through the motions. A thought which made me extremely uneasy, as you can imagine, so I thrust it to the back of my mind. If push came to shove, I was sure I could still surprise them – after all, there were occasions when I’d even surprised myself by my reactions to the threat of imminent death, so catching some pointy-eared tanna leaf reader[64] on the hop shouldn’t be too much of a problem. She made some complex gesture with her hand, which I assumed to be an eldar form of greeting,[65] and spoke to them in their own tongue.

They responded in kind, the one Amberley had identified as the farseer doing most of the talking – which I suppose was fair enough if he already knew how the conversation was due to end[66] – their mellifluous tones intermingling with Amberley’s deeper contralto. From time to time all of them, including Amberley, glanced in my direction, which I found far from comforting, and I was sure I heard my own name emerging from the trilling flow of eldar speech more than once.

At length the conversation ended, although Amberley’s expression gave no clue as to how successfully or otherwise she felt it had gone. The eldar turned dismissively and filed away into one of the tunnels, while Amberley strolled back towards Jurgen and me.

‘Well,’ she said slowly, ‘that went about as well as could be expected.’

‘Are they pulling out?’ I asked. In all the time the war had been raging, I strongly suspected, neither side had parlayed with the other for more than a handful of minutes if at all, so if Amberley had managed to negotiate a truce she’d just pulled off a major diplomatic coup.

She laughed. ‘Ever the soldier, Ciaphas.’ She shook her head. ‘Probably not.’

‘So what were you talking about?’ I asked.

Amberley shrugged. ‘I’m not entirely sure. Eldar’s not like Gothic, you know, there are words for concepts which don’t even have human equivalents, and Sambhatain’s a farseer to boot. For all I know he could have been talking about something which might happen, is happening now, or would have happened if they hadn’t already prevented it.’

‘At least you know his name though,’ I said, and Amberley smiled, in the would-be reassuring fashion which was actually anything but.

‘I know the name he gave me,’ she said, and hesitated for a moment. ‘And he knows yours. Whatever potential futures he’s foreseen, you seem significant in an awful lot of them.’

‘In a good way, I hope,’ I said, although under the circumstances I somehow doubted it.

Eight

‘Chaos cults in the mines,’ Kasteen said, her tea bowl hitting the surface of the conference table in the command centre with the emphasis of a pistol bolt. ‘And eldar coming and going as they please, apparently. How the hell did they get down there in the first place?’

‘The cultists seem to have been using the place for decades,’ Proktor said, looking distinctly green around the gills. He shot a sidelong glance at Amberley, who’d taken the opportunity to freshen up after whatever adventures had brought her there, although her clothes remained just as rumpled (not to mention a little on the fragrant side) as before. Clearly he was finding the presence of a real live inquisitor just a few seats away more than a little intimidating. ‘The governor wishes me to express her shock and dismay at this discovery, and assure you of our full cooperation in rooting out every last vestige of this appalling heresy.’

‘Not my department,’ Amberley replied breezily, to his apparent bewilderment, ‘but one of my colleagues from the Ordo Malleus will be arriving soon to take over the investigation. In the meantime, you’ll just have to do the best you can on your own.’

‘But how can we?’ Proktor protested. ‘There’s no telling how big this cult is, or how much influence its members have. What if they’re in a position to sabotage the whole enquiry?’

‘If I were you,’ I said, ‘I’d start by assuming very, lots, and they are, respectively, and proceeding on that basis. Get every investigator checked out at least twice by different people, and reporting only to the local arbitrator’s office[67] – they’re from off-world, so they’re less likely to be compromised.’

Kasteen nodded. ‘We’re liaising with them already,’ she said, ‘in case they need warm bodies with guns. Obviously local law enforcement and the defence force have to be considered compromised until proven otherwise.’

‘Obviously,’ Proktor agreed, looking far from happy. ‘What can I tell the governor?’

‘As little as possible,’ Amberley said. ‘No telling how far the taint has spread.’ Then she relented a little. ‘It’s unlikely she’s involved, though,’ she conceded, to Proktor’s evident relief. ‘If she was she’d have made some kind of move to gain the initiative by now, instead of bleating for the Inquisition to come in and sort it all out for her.’

‘Unless it’s a clever double bluff,’ I said, unable to resist the impulse to tease the man a little, but if anything the remark seemed to have reassured him.

‘She’s not that bright,’ he said. ‘But keeping her side-lined is a good idea. She’s not all that discreet either.’

‘What about the temple you found?’ Delvinge asked, looking even more sickly than Proktor had. Clearly the news that heretics had been running rampant in the depths of a mine he was responsible for had been far from welcome, and he sat as far from Amberley as he could, glancing at her from time to time as though he thought it could only be a matter of time before she leapt out of her seat and shot him.

Kasteen turned to Amberley before she answered the question. ‘Grifen’s platoon’s still guarding the place, but I’m not sure if it’s from the heretics or the eldar. Either way, we can’t just leave it there.’

‘Cleanse it,’ Broklaw put in. ‘Bring the roof down with demo charges.’

Delvinge nodded eagerly, seizing on the chance to demonstrate his loyalty. ‘My lads can do that. No problem. They can place the charges right where they’ll do the most damage.’

I nodded, and he smiled queasily, grateful for the tacit support. Our own sappers knew their explosives, of course – rather too intimately for my peace of mind in the case of their commander, Captain Federer, whose enthusiasm for detonating things was all too evident every time he got the chance – but the miners would be far better versed in the local geology.

‘Under military supervision,’ Kasteen agreed, after a moment’s consideration. ‘If that’s all right with you, inquisitor?’

‘Fine,’ Amberley agreed. ‘The sooner the better.’

‘Shouldn’t we wait for the other inquisitor to get here?’ Broklaw asked. ‘They might want to examine the site themselves.’ When we’d found similar pockets of corruption on Adumbria the Lord General had sent his own sanctioned psykers in to poke around before cleansing them, although the Inquisition hadn’t been involved on that occasion.[68]

Amberley shook her head. ‘I’ve already had Rakel give it the once over. According to her there’s psychic residue all over the place, but no actual warp breach. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather keep it that way.’

‘Gets my vote,’ I said, conscious that if that course of action had been signed off on by both the Inquisition and the Commissariat, Kasteen and the 597th would be comfortably insulated from blame if it all somehow went horribly wrong, or the quill jugglers back on Coronus decided to throw a jurisdictional hissy fit.

‘Then we’d better get on with it.’ Broklaw tapped his comm-bead. ‘Captain Federer. Got a little demo job for you. The mine manager’s liaising, make sure his pick jockeys know which end of the det cord goes bang.’ He listened for a moment, and turned to Delvinge. ‘He’ll meet you at the head of shaft three in twenty minutes. Better get your team together.’

The mine manager’s jowls wobbled, a hivequake of consternation rippling across his face.

‘Twenty minutes? That’s barely enough time to get there, let alone–’

‘Then you’d better get moving, hadn’t you?’ Broklaw said evenly. I’d expected Delvinge to make more of a fight of it, but he simply made a few spluttering sounds, like an enginseer getting their first look at a vehicle Jurgen had returned to the transport pool, before rising, bowing elaborately to Amberley, pointedly ignoring the rest of us and bustling out.

‘Well, that takes care of one problem,’ I said, although I didn’t believe it for a moment. Chaos cults didn’t just go away, although the fact that this one had apparently been lurking down in the dark for years without sparking any of the civil unrest which generally presaged an open declaration of allegiance did point to the fact that they were relatively small and weak as these things go. ‘We’ll have to get all the other mines checked, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Amberley agreed. She turned to Proktor. ‘I take it you can talk to the right people, get that organised? Once you’ve worked out who you can trust.’

‘I think so,’ Proktor said, before catching himself, no doubt reflecting that even though making firm commitments was anathema to a career bureaucrat this was hardly the time to sound unenthusiastic about purging heretics. ‘That is, I can. It’ll take a while, though.’

‘Good,’ Amberley said. ‘And we’ll need to talk to the arbitrator about searching the hab zones too, particularly the underhive. Where there’s one nest of heretics there could easily be others.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Broklaw said, an instant before I could make the offer; it wouldn’t have taken me long to establish the need for regular liaison meetings which would have kept me in the warm, away from airborne eldar intent on killing me, and even further away from any taint of warpcraft, pretty much indefinitely. ‘I’ve been keeping channels open with his office ever since we arrived.’

‘Good,’ I said, masking my disappointment with the ease of long practice. ‘That just leaves the eldar to worry about, then.’

‘That it does,’ Kasteen agreed, turning to the hololith projector, which had been wheeled into the conference room by a couple of sweating troopers and a nervously hovering tech-priest[69] before our deliberations had got properly started. The tangle of natural fissures at the bottom of the image had been extended a little, I noticed at once, presumably as a result of the exploration teams we’d sent down there, and who were still diligently burrowing away, judging by how much had been mapped since the last time I’d seen the display. Kasteen glared at the glowing image as though personally affronted by it. ‘And the biggest worry by far is how they got down there in the first place.’

Amberley coughed, looking faintly embarrassed. ‘I’m afraid that’s probably my fault,’ she said.

‘Perhaps you’d like to explain that?’ I asked.

‘Without the civilians present,’ Kasteen added, with a meaningful glance at Proktor and the enginseer currently poking at the hololith.[70] The cogboy[71] took the hint and scooted off at once, with a backward glance at the hololith which might have seemed worried if they’d had enough flesh left to register a facial expression with, no doubt wondering how well the delicate mechanism would stand up to Broklaw taking a crack at the controls if that turned out to be necessary. Proktor, however, remained seated, bristling in the way only an affronted bureaucrat can.

‘I have to report to the governor,’ he said firmly, ‘and I can’t do that properly unless I know precisely what it is that I’m not telling her.’

‘Fair point,’ Amberley conceded. She turned an appraising eye on Proktor. ‘But you can’t unhear what I’m about to tell you, and I can assure you you’d rather not know.’ Which might have sounded like self-aggrandising hyperbole to the Administratum drone, but which sent a shiver of apprehension up my spine. I knew her well enough to know that she didn’t exaggerate when alien threats to the Imperium were concerned, and would do whatever was necessary to neutralise one regardless of the consequences.

‘I’ll take that risk,’ Proktor said, a trifle stiffly, while Kasteen, Broklaw and I shared a glance of mutual apprehension. Clearly, whatever news Amberley had to share wasn’t going to be summarisable in a cheery greetings card.

Amberley shrugged. ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘But this information is to remain strictly confidential. If anyone outside this room hears about it before I’m ready to tell them, up to and including the governor, I swear by the Throne that I’ll have whoever’s responsible executed. Are we all clear on that?’

Kasteen, Broklaw and I simply nodded, seeing no reason for a more elaborate response; after all, we knew one another well by that point, and if Amberley trusted the other two a little less because she hadn’t had so much contact with them over the years, she’d certainly had plenty with me, and my confidence in them carried its own guarantee so far as she was concerned.[72] Proktor, however, evidently felt he had a little more to prove, because he followed up his nod with an audible gulp.

‘Perfectly clear,’ he said, and ran a finger round the inside of his collar as though it had just become far too tight.

‘Good.’ Amberley rose, and approached the hololith, zooming the image to encompass the network of natural passageways where we’d found the eldar and the heretics waiting for us. ‘The eldar got into the mine the same way my team and I did. Through the webway.’

She glanced at Proktor, waiting for him to interject and ask what that was, but he must have remembered our previous conversation on the subject, because he simply nodded thoughtfully.

‘We thought there might be an entrance to it somewhere on the surface,’ he said. ‘But all the sites we searched came up blank.’[73]

I nodded too. ‘Which begs the question of why they’ve only just started using this one, instead of a year ago when they first started raiding.’

Amberley positively squirmed,[74] although only I would have known her well enough to see through the facade of unconcern she continued to project.[75] ‘Because I suspect our using it was what first drew it to their attention.’ She paused, marshalling her thoughts. ‘The webway is a peculiar place, with its own rules. The more energy you put into moving the faster you seem to go. It certainly felt like we were walking for a long time while we were in there, although some of the passages are big enough to take a starship through.’

‘That must be how the raiders are getting into the system,’ Broklaw said. ‘Since they all seem to originate from the same point.’

Amberley nodded. ‘Along a passageway leading to their craftworld,’ she confirmed. ‘But now we’ve shown them a new path. One they’ll be sure to exploit.’

‘Why didn’t they know about it already?’ I asked. ‘If their primary target is this mine, on this moon, you’d think they’d have done their recon.’

Amberley sighed. ‘Because the webway’s fragmented,’ she said. ‘This branch only leads to one place, although when we entered the portal there we sensed other pathways leading off from it.’

‘Sensed?’ Proktor asked, clearly out of his depth by now. ‘Can’t you be more specific?’

‘No,’ Amberley answered, her voice a clear warning not to pursue the matter. ‘Perceptions get distorted in the webway. If we hadn’t had a psyker with us, we might never have found our way out again.’

‘I see,’ Proktor said, in the voice of a man who manifestly didn’t. ‘And you were able to breathe in this labyrinth through the warp?’

‘Obviously,’ Amberley said, an unmistakable edge of testiness which I had long learned to be wary of entering her voice now. ‘Otherwise we’d be dead.’

‘Air probably leaks in from some of the worlds it’s connected to,’ I said hastily, trying to keep the discussion on matters of relevance.

Proktor frowned in puzzlement. ‘Then why doesn’t it leak out again through the entrances leading to open space?’ he asked.

‘How should I know?’ Amberley snapped. ‘It just doesn’t, all right? Does anyone here actually care?’ Kasteen, Broklaw and I exchanged carefully neutral glances, and after a moment she went on, Proktor finally having had the sense to shut up. ‘No? Good. Then you need to get on to subsector command and call for reinforcements.’

‘Of course, if you consider it necessary,’ Kasteen said, with the air of a woman juggling hand grenades. ‘But if you show us the location of the portal we can just blockade it. Those tunnels are natural choke points, and the eldar can’t get anything larger than infantry through them anyway. Holding them off once we know their lines of advance will be a trakki[76] shoot.’

Amberley manipulated the controls of the hololith, marking the end point of one of the new passageways with an eldary-looking rune. ‘It’s here. But that’s not the point. The point’s where the other end comes out.’

‘Which would be where?’ Broklaw asked.

Amberley twiddled a few knobs, then thumped the control lectern with her fist in a manner as assured as a properly sanctified tech-priest. The image vanished, to be replaced with a representation of the solar system we were currently in: the star at the centre, the inhabited planets, moons, asteroids and void stations all marked with runes showing their populations, economic output, state of readiness against attack (lamentably low in all but the outermost, nearest to the eldar fleet) and other such information, with us far out on the periphery, facing a constellation of enemy contact icons.

‘Ironfound,’ Amberley said, zooming the image in on the system’s capital world, hanging in space like a ripe ploin, teeming with people and gravid with wealth. ‘One of the biggest manufacturing centres in the entire subsector, if you don’t count the Mechanicus forge worlds. Thirty billion people, turning out everything from Baneblades to boot soles. Disrupt that, and you’re looking at economic collapse on half the worlds in the cluster. Famine, riots, rebellion, and the t’au poised just the other side of their border to swoop in and pick off the juiciest. We could lose a dozen systems to them in less than a year, and that’s just the best-case scenario.’

I shook my head. ‘The best-case scenario is that none of that happens. Why should it? Why now?’

Amberley looked grave. ‘Because the eldar have recently rediscovered a webway portal on Ironfound, down in the sump of the main hive. To cut a long story short, they claimed the planet long before the Imperium even knew it was there, and they’re not happy about how it’s been redecorated. They want it back. And, oh look, they’ve got a raiding fleet already in the outer system.’

‘God-Emperor,’ Kasteen said, and Amberley nodded.

‘My sentiments exactly.’

‘Right,’ Broklaw said, homing in on the tactical issues with his usual directness. ‘We need to send a message to Ironfound, get their planetary defence force on full alert, and whatever system defence assets they’ve got deployed in an outer defensive line.’

Kasteen nodded decisively. ‘And get there ourselves as quickly as possible.’ She glanced at Amberley for approval and, finding it, returned her attention to Broklaw. ‘Find an astropath, let the rear-echelon grox fondlers on Coronus know we need reinforcements for Ironfound, and to back up the defence forces here against the eldar and any heretics that might still be running around loose.’ She turned to Proktor. ‘Find us a ship.’

‘Right.’ He looked a little taken aback, but rallied quickly. ‘I’ll get right on it.’ He bowed, mainly at Amberley, and started for the door. ‘It might take a while. Most of the ones in orbit have their cargoes assigned by now…’

‘Then tell them I sent you,’ Amberley said. ‘Better still…’ She tapped her comm-bead. ‘Flicker. Scrivener Proktor’s just leaving. I’ve asked him to run a little errand for me, and I’m sure he’d be grateful if you and Zemelda went along with him to smooth his path.’

‘Thank you, inquisitor. Much appreciated.’ Proktor bowed again, with the air of a man who’d just poked a buzz saw to see if it was still running and was now trying to catch a couple of fingers. ‘I’ll get back to you within the hour.’

‘It’s still going to be tight,’ I said. I turned to Amberley. ‘Could we use the webway to get to Ironfound?’

She shook her head. ‘That isn’t an option. We had to collapse the tunnel leading to it before we came through. Even if we could work out how to activate the portal, your advance party would just be trapped in a cavern in the sump.’

‘At least we won’t have to worry about the eldar invading upwards through the underhive, then,’ I said.

‘Not in the short term,’ Amberley agreed. ‘Although the eldar are one of the oldest and most sophisticated races in the galaxy. I’m pretty sure working out how to use a shovel isn’t going to be beyond them.’

Editorial Note:

Since Cain skips lightly over the ensuing events, picking them up again only after some time has passed, the following extract may prove useful to any readers wishing to fill in the gap – although, as usual, any unwilling to plough through Sulla’s purple prose are perfectly at liberty to move swiftly on, if not actually encouraged to do so.

From Like a Phoenix on the Wing: the Early Campaigns and Glorious Victories of the Valhallan 597th by General Jenit Sulla (retired), 101 M42

The news that, dire as the situation on Drechia appeared, it was only the precursor to a greater and even more potent danger which had lain in ambush completely unsuspected was received by us all with the stoicism and renewed resolve I had come to expect from the daughters and sons of Valhalla, particularly those with whom I had been privileged to serve for so long. Though a certain amount of consternation among the rank and file was only to be expected, such apprehensions were gratifyingly short-lived, thanks to the inspirational leadership of Commissar Cain, whose habitual air of calm confidence had its usual reviving effect on the morale of all he spoke to, from Colonel Kasteen herself to the lowliest of the newly inducted troopers. My position as a company commander meant that I was fortunate enough to be briefed by, and occasionally converse with, the gallant commissar to a greater extent than most, drawing renewed heart from his manifest dedication to duty, nobility of bearing,[77] and unfailing concern for every member of the regiment.

The news that an inquisitor herself had requested our aid was, if anything, of even greater import, and cause for much speculation – something I must confess that even I felt constrained to indulge in on occasion. The prevailing consensus, however, possibly due to the calming influence of Commissar Cain, was that we would thereby be doing the Emperor’s work, and thus be under the protection of His divine hand throughout the trials to come which was, as can be readily appreciated, greatly comforting to us all. Of the inquisitor herself I saw nothing, since she preferred to work closely with Colonel Kasteen, Major Broklaw and Commissar Cain, all of whom it seemed were personally acquainted with her, although none of them were particularly forthcoming as to the circumstances under which this prior association had been minted. Knowing my duty, and the primacy of the need to know, I, of course, forbore to ask, although much speculation about the matter continued to be a staple of regimental gossip for some considerable time.

The news[78] that we were to pull out, in the midst of so grave a local crisis, was not, of course, well received by the Drechians, who protested as vigorously as one might expect; unsurprisingly it fell to the consummate diplomatic skills of Commissar Cain[79] to calm the situation. Even the planetary governor herself could hardly fail to be moved by his mastery of oratory,[80] eventually resigning herself to our departure with good grace and heartfelt wishes for our success.

In the meantime, of course, preparations for our rapid departure were being made. Thanks to the governor’s personal intervention[81] a freighter large enough to accommodate all the regimental assets had been requisitioned for our use with remarkable rapidity, and the process of embarkation begun within a day of the inquisitor’s unexpected arrival. I, along with the other company commanders, had, of course, been given the vital task of expediting our departure as much as possible, which in my case meant that Major Broklaw delegated most of the logistical matters to me, with the flattering observation that no other officer in the regiment could be relied upon to discharge these matters with equal diligence and despatch. This left him free to oversee the handing over of the defence of Drechia to the local forces, who, it must be said, had learned a good deal from our brief association, pending the arrival of whichever Imperial Guard unit was to take over from us. Whoever it was would find a world far better prepared to fend off the depredations of the perfidious xenos, the network of defensive works which we had prepared protecting the mines far more effectively than the more rudimentary constructions bequeathed us by the planetary defence force.

The defence forces themselves, on whom the task of holding the line against the eldar had now fallen unaided, rose to the challenge with all the fervour Commissar Cain’s inspirational peroration had imbued them with,[82] and we took our departure content in the knowledge that Drechia was, though now more weakly defended, still perfectly capable of meeting the challenge. Of the Chaos cult which Commissar Cain had so surprisingly uncovered there was little news, beyond the arbitrator’s office assuring us that investigations were continuing, and that the rounding up and purging of every last degenerate heretic was merely a matter of time.

Thus it was that we broke orbit a mere two days after the dread discovery of the eldar’s true plans, racing to the relief of Ironfound, and praying to the Emperor that we would be in time to protect it from the xenos’ fell purpose.

Nine

Proktor’s choice of vessel, an ore barge so nondescript as to be known only by a registration number[83] but dubbed Rustbucket by its crew, turned out to be an ideal one. For one thing it was large enough to accommodate the entire regiment and its materiel with room to spare, and for another its engines, designed to shift loads of around the megatonne mark, accelerated us like a scalded sump rat as soon as they were ignited, sending us scooting across the void at a rate I tried not to think about too much, more than halving the time the journey to Ironfound would normally have taken.

Best of all – and much to my surprise if I was honest – we’d got underway unmolested by any prowling eldar vessels, probably because the Rustbucket seemed indistinguishable to them from the hundreds of other ore barges plying the system – at least until we broke away from Drechia and began our sprint towards Ironfound, leaving the pointy-ears flat-footed behind us.[84]

Which still left us with a couple of weeks transiting open space to kill, but we managed to fill that with sufficient training exercises and orientation lectures to keep the troopers out of mischief, at least as much as could reasonably be expected. The inevitable exceptions kept me occupied enough not to think too much about what awaited us at the end of our journey, and given that Amberley’s presence aboard gave us enough time to renew our acquaintance with quite gratifying thoroughness, the whole interlude might almost have been pleasant.

Of course it was too good to last, the Rustbucket’s captain reminding us of the eldar’s presence a mere three days after our departure.

‘I thought you’d want to see this,’ she said, glancing up from a control lectern near the centre of the bridge as Amberley and I entered in response to the tersely worded invitation we’d received a few moments before. Her manner was deferential, as people’s tended to be in the presence of an inquisitor, but far from obsequious; I had the feeling that the Emperor Himself could have materialised on her deck and been left in no doubt that she was still the mistress of her own ship.

It was my first visit to the nerve centre of the Rustbucket, but I’d been on enough ship’s bridges over the years to orientate myself without difficulty, as they tended to follow more or less the same pattern. The captain’s station, currently vacant of course, was on a raised dais at the rear of the room, where she could keep an eye on her subordinates, manning the array of lecterns fanning out from it in three curving rows. Throne alone knew what half of them were monitoring, but I knew enough to pick out the ones relaying data from the enginarium, and the console Captain Addie was standing at was clearly an augur station.

‘What is it?’ Amberley asked, equally business-like, standing to one side as she spoke to allow Mott, who had accompanied us, a clear view of the display. I, on the other hand, was the sole representative of the Astra Militarum; Kasteen and Broklaw were still wrestling with the unenviable task of trying to work out how to defend an entire planet with a single regiment, and Jurgen had disappeared on some errand of his own, presumably in search of unattended comestibles or something he felt might come in handy once it was squirrelled away in his tangle of webbing pouches.

‘Something on the long-range augurs,’ Addie said, indicating the screen. ‘Cluster of contacts, heading out from the subsystem on the same course we are.’ Then a trace of doubt entered her voice. ‘But they don’t seem to be moving right.’

‘Eldar,’ Amberley said decisively, after a glance at the display. ‘They use light sails instead of plasma drives, so they’re faster and more manoeuvrable than Imperial vessels.’

‘How much faster?’ I asked, with the familiar sensation of having just been punched in the stomach. If I was reading the display right the contacts were a long way behind, but we still had the best part of a fortnight to go before we reached Ironfound – at least if we wanted to slow down enough to make orbit when we got there, instead of simply punching a continent-sized crater in it. Plenty of time for the eldar to catch up with us, if they really were capable of doing so.

‘That would depend on the intensity and direction of the etheric currents they’re tacking against,’ Mott said, taking the question as literally as Jurgen would have done. ‘But, based on indices of performance from previous encounters, the likelihood of them matching or exceeding our current velocity would be approximately fifty-seven point four three eight per cent.’

Captain Addie exchanged a concerned glance with her augur operator, clearly liking those odds no better than I did.

‘In other words,’ I said, ‘there’s a more than even chance that the eldar will get to Ironfound before we do.’ What I meant, of course, was that they’d catch us up and blow us out of the sky, intra-system ore barges like the Rustbucket not normally being over-endowed with weaponry, but putting that thought into words where Addie and her most senior officers could hear it was unlikely to end well.

Mott shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. That would depend on the class of vessel, as some are swifter than others. The estimate I just gave was averaged out.’

‘Then assume at least some of them will be faster,’ Amberley said, the faint air of testiness entering her voice imperceptible to anyone who knew her less well than I did.

‘If the flotilla includes destroyer- or frigate-sized vessels,’ Mott replied, ‘willing to operate beyond the effective support range of the heavier ships, there’s a thirty-seven per cent chance of making orbit around Ironfound before we do.’ An expression of faint surprise ghosted across his face. ‘Thirty-seven per cent exactly. How odd.’

Addie, at least, was looking a little more cheerful at this news. ‘They might make orbit,’ she said, ‘but they won’t stay in it. The orbital defence batteries will cut them to pieces.’

Mott nodded. ‘Their optimum strategy would be to remain together, and hope the firepower of the capital ships will be enough to breach Ironfound’s defences,’ he agreed.

Unfortunately the eldar appeared to have different ideas, as over the following few days it became increasingly apparent that a single squadron of faster ships had indeed broken free of the main fleet, and was closing inexorably on our position.

‘It’s going to be tight,’ Addie said, when I entered the bridge to observe the crew perform the deceleration rituals necessary to allow us to make orbit around Ironfound instead of ending up spread across most of the facing hemisphere. She indicated the augur screen, which, I’m bound to own, had taken up rather too much of my attention of late. The pursuing trio of eldar vessels had gained on us considerably, although to my untutored eye (mixed, I must confess, with a healthy dose of wishful thinking) we still seemed some considerable distance beyond the range of their weapons. Which made it a bad time to be slowing down, if you asked me.

‘The eldar will have to decelerate too, though, won’t they?’ I asked, and the captain pursed her lips, clearly wondering how best to answer that. Typically, she went for the forthright approach.

‘Frakked if I know. But the inquisitor says they don’t respond like our ships, so I wouldn’t hold your breath.’ She returned to her command chair and began issuing instructions to her crew, not so much ignoring me as shrugging off my continuing presence as something not germane to the proper functioning of her vessel, and therefore of no interest.

With nothing constructive to contribute I remained quiet, staring at the augurs, and wishing I knew enough about the arcane mysteries of navigation in the void to know if I needed to be worried.

‘Those enemy frigates are getting a bit close,’ Amberley said, appearing at my shoulder. She was unaccompanied as well this time, although whether from the desire not to distract Addie and her subordinates any more than could be helped on the already crowded deck, or because her retinue were otherwise occupied, I didn’t ask.

‘They are,’ I agreed, pretending to a lack of concern I was far from feeling, ‘but there’s not a lot we can do about it. Just trust in the Emperor to see us down safe.’ I looked at the augurs again, seeing the first few contacts of the nimbus of traffic surrounding our destination. They, and the sanctuary they represented, certainly seemed close enough to reach. In fact a few of them seemed to be moving in our direction. ‘What are they?’

‘System defence boats,’ Addie said, ‘moving out to intercept the xenos.’ She thumbed her palm, apparently unaware of making the gesture. ‘They should be passing our position in a couple of days.’

‘Good,’ I said, after a quick mental calculation. It was hard to be certain, but it seemed to me that there was at least a chance of scuttling behind the advancing picket line for protection before the eldar were able to close to within firing range.

Amberley chewed her lip pensively, apparently having come to the same conclusion. ‘It’ll be a damn close-run thing,’ she said.

In the end it was even closer than our most pessimistic forebodings. You can be sure I found an excuse to be on the bridge at the critical moment, reasoning that if I was going to be blown to perdition in the vacuum of space at least I’d be able to see it coming, and prepare some excuses in advance of my arrival at the Golden Throne.

‘I think we’re going to make it,’ I said, as the nearest system defence boat sailed past our position a scant few thousand kilometres away. I squinted quizzically at the blip. ‘What’s he waiting for?’ I was no expert, of course, but I would have expected its captain to have adjusted their heading by now; as it was, the cutter seemed to be making no attempt to intercept the oncoming eldar squadron at all, heading wide of their oncoming position.

‘You’re missing the bigger picture,’ Addie said, in the tone peculiar to an expert explaining what seems perfectly obvious to them. ‘The whole flotilla’s moving to intercept the main fleet. He’s not going to move out of position to engage a target of opportunity that the orbital defences can swat out of the sky anyway.’ She shrugged, barely masking the disappointment of someone who knew better all along, but couldn’t help hoping anyway. ‘It’s all a matter of priorities.’

‘I get that,’ I agreed. ‘But I’d have thought protecting the Imperial Guard unit that’s supposed to keep the planet safe would be pretty near the top of the list.’

‘If they can blunt the attack in the first place they won’t need troops on the ground,’ Amberley said, frowning a little. ‘But it’s taking a hell of a risk.’ Clearly she felt no happier about this than I did. ‘I can see I’m going to have to have a little chat with someone when I get back on the ground.’

‘We can still make it,’ Captain Addie said, indicating a particularly large augur contact in low orbit. ‘We’re on our final approach to Skyside Seventeen.’ I nodded, as if I’d remembered which particular orbital dock we’d been assigned to for transhipment to the surface. ‘But the minute we make the final deceleration burn, they’ll be on us like fleas on a hold rat.’

‘Better hope the defence batteries know what they’re doing, then,’ I said.

Amberley nodded. The crews manning them would have been on alert for weeks, drilling intensively, but hadn’t engaged an actual enemy since time immemorial, and training simulations didn’t shoot back.

The captain took a deep breath. ‘No point putting it off,’ she said, and activated the vox-unit built into the arm of her chair. ‘Enginarium. Prow thrusters, full burn on my mark.’ She waited for what seemed like half a lifetime, but which could scarcely have been a handful of seconds, watching her instrumentation as intently as a feline with a rat hole. ‘Aaaannndd… Mark!’

It could have been nothing more than my active imagination, but I thought I felt a faint vibration through the soles of my boots. I tapped my own vox-bead. ‘This is Commissar Cain,’ I voxed generally. ‘Stand by. Things might get a little bumpy.’

The eldar kept on coming, closing rapidly now the Rustbucket was losing way. I braced myself.

‘They’re in weapons range,’ Addie said, the clipped precision of her voice betraying her inner tension.

‘Still closing,’ the augur operator reported, quite unnecessarily, as none of us could have taken our eyes off the display even if we’d wanted to. ‘Closing… Closing…’

‘Prepare to repel boarders,’ I voxed, jumping to the obvious conclusion.

Amberley shook her head, with a trace of puzzlement. ‘They’re moving too fast for that.’

‘And they’re past,’ the auspex operator said, surprise and relief contending for control of his voice.

‘What just happened?’ Captain Addie asked, relief most definitely in the ascendant. ‘They had us cold.’

‘They’re going for the orbital dock,’ Amberley said. Sure enough, no sooner had she spoken than a volley of torpedoes streaked away from the eldar raiders, impacting on our intended destination, though so far as I could see they’d barely be able to scratch the paintwork of the city-sized structure.

‘Then we’re not,’ I said. I turned to Captain Addie. ‘Get us into a stable orbit, inside the defence batteries. It’ll take longer to offload everything by shuttle, but at least we won’t get shot at while we’re doing it.’

She nodded. ‘I like the way your mind works.’

I tapped my comm-bead again, selecting Kasteen’s personal channel. ‘Regina,’ I began. ‘There’s been a slight change of plan…’

Editorial Note:

The following extract is appended in order to place some of what follows in a wider context. As ever with such accounts by minor members of the local nobility with pretensions to scholarship, some analysis is over-simplistic, and some of the events which we of the Inquisitorial ordos have deemed better left unknown to members of the public are conspicuous by their absence, but it covers the basics competently enough.

From The Eldar: a History of Their Presence in the Ultima Segmentum, and Some Musings Upon Possible Means of Their Eradication, by Baltazar Thromp, 997 M41

The eldar attack on Ironfound was, like most such acts by xenos pirates, unprovoked and merciless in its savagery. The first intimation the populace had of their incursion was an astropathic warning sent by Commissar Cain, the renowned Hero of the Imperium, who had been gallantly leading the resistance to the eldar’s initial onslaught in the Halo Autonomous Zone, where little damage of any consequence had been done – thanks, no doubt, to the martial expertise of this legendary warrior.

Apprehending that Ironfound itself was the reivers’ true target, its wealth being immeasurably greater than that of the halo colonies, the gallant commissar lost no time in marshalling the forces of the Imperial Guard and – transporting them with all due despatch to the true centre of the Ironfound system[85] – began to undertake its defence.

And not a moment too soon. For no sooner had he left Drechia, the aptly named capital of the fringe colonies, than the black-hearted eldar began their assault, setting off in pursuit of the Imperial Hero and his dauntless allies. To no avail, their ramshackle vessels incapable of catching – let alone overhauling – the finely crafted fruits of the Imperial shipbuilders’ arts. Indeed, only three of them, more foolhardy than even their fellows, attempted to do so; when their intended prey successfully eluded them they vented their frustration on the nearest of the orbital docks, inflicting minimal damage to its defensive batteries before being forced to flee by the sheer volume of retaliatory fire.

The commissar’s warning had preceded his arrival, however, and the system defence fleet of Ironfound swiftly mobilised to counter this intolerable challenge to His Divine Majesty’s stewardship of that blessed world. Within days a flotilla of the finest fighting vessels in the entire system had left the orbital anchorages, sallying forth to meet the challenge.

This they did to great effect, destroying or crippling several of the smaller vessels, and inflicting sufficient damage on one of the battleships to force its withdrawal, returning whence it came in ignominious defeat.

Alas, however, it was a victory dearly won. The gallant defenders were significantly outnumbered, and though their strategy of concentrating on the smaller and weaker vessels was undoubtedly sound,[86] it left them vulnerable to the powerful weapons aboard the enemy battleships without much chance to retaliate effectively.

By the time the first clash was over, the system defence boats Fire Wasp, Hornet, Pismire and Weevil were reduced to gutted hulks, the monitors Eternal Throne, Shield of Faith and Thought for the Day so thoroughly mauled that they were incapable of taking any further part in the defence of the system, and the decommissioned dreadnought[87] Nerves of Steel was forced to withdraw with most of its weapons destroyed after slugging it out with one of the enemy battleships for the majority of the engagement.

Thus it was that, despite the best efforts of the system defence fleet, who heroically withdrew at that point to regroup, the eldar invaders were able to continue their inexorable – though undoubtedly weakened – advance towards Ironfound itself.

Only to find that Commissar Cain was already there, rallying the defenders of our beleaguered realm, and determined to lead them to victory in the Emperor’s name.

Ten

‘Commissar. Your reputation precedes you, of course.’ The planetary governor, Septimus Fulcher by name, bowed with an ornate flourish and a rustling of lace, which clung to his surcoat like ivy to a crumbling ruin. It seemed that punctilious adherence to elaborate etiquette was as much a feature of life on Ironfound as on Drechia. ‘The honour of this meeting is all mine.’

A meeting dictated by protocol, which demanded that the regiment’s senior officers reported to the governor in person as soon as possible after our arrival – which I have to say was fine by me, as he seemed to have been in the middle of some kind of soiree when Kasteen, Broklaw and I pitched up at his official residence, and I’ve never been averse to a sycophantic audience and free refreshment.

‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ I said, proffering a hand to shake. One of the advantages of that reputation, and the peripatetic nature of life in the Astra Militarum, was that local customs could generally be ignored unless there was some advantage to be had by following them; I’d long since perfected the persona of the plain, blunt military man, who said what I thought without fear or favour, and most civilians lapped it up. Particularly, for some reason, the ones most used to being toadied to.[88] Which went a long way towards explaining how I got away with dissembling so much, as people tended to take whatever I said entirely at face value.

Most people, anyway. Amberley, I was sure, knew there was a great deal about me that I kept from the casual eye – but then it takes one to know one, and part of the reason we got on so well was that I knew better than to press her beyond anything she chose to show. I glanced in her direction, across the crowded ballroom, but she was engaged in earnest conversation with a middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard, in a plain brown robe of expensive material and even more expensive cut. An off-world merchant, if I was any judge, with social connections at the highest level on Ironfound, which would explain his presence here. Precisely the kind of man she would instinctively pump for information, which, distracted by the cut of her ball gown, exposing a precisely calculated degree of décolletage, he’d remain blissfully unaware of having imparted.

Fulcher took my hand with an easy smile, too practised at diplomatic games to be wrong-footed, and shook it firmly; but without trying to make a trial of strength of the exchange, which would have betrayed an underlying insecurity.

‘Oh, I rather doubt that,’ he said. ‘I’ll wager you’d much prefer to be getting ready to face the enemy than wasting time at a dreary social function.’ He smiled, in what seemed like a genuinely friendly manner. He had one of those faces which falls just sufficiently short of being conventionally handsome to seem warm and approachable, while still being exceptional enough to attract attention; I found myself wondering idly how much it had cost. His age appeared to be somewhere around the late forties, but something about the eyes made me think it was probably two or three times that.[89] ‘It goes without saying that any assistance I can offer is yours for the asking.’

‘I’ll pass your kind offer along to the colonel,’ I said. ‘She’s around here somewhere.’ I turned my head, scanning the ballroom, and eventually spotted Kasteen, who was surrounded by a flock of the kind of callow young men easily impressed by the sight of a well-filled dress uniform. She glanced in my direction, met my eye with a smile, and went on recounting whichever anecdote she was holding her audience spellbound with, looking remarkably like a bon vivant contemplating which delicacy to pick from the evening’s menu.

‘No need,’ the governor assured me. ‘We’ve already spoken.’ Though he seemed completely relaxed, he clearly had a firm grasp of the essentials; not a man to underestimate, I found myself thinking. ‘She seems to be on top of things.’

‘She always is,’ I said. ‘You won’t find a better regimental commander in the Eastern Fringes.’ Which was true, incidentally, even though it was the sort of thing I was supposed to say.

Fulcher nodded. ‘Her executive officer seems very competent as well.’ He glanced in the direction of Major Broklaw, who was currently executing a complicated gavotte in the middle of the throng currently occupying the dance floor, some local noblewoman of ample charms accompanying his every move with surprising grace and a faintly besotted simper. Somehow I found myself doubting that either of the regiment’s most senior officers would be spending the night in their assigned quarters. Which was fine by me, as I was rather hoping for a pleasant tryst with Amberley a little later on, and it hardly seemed fair to be having all the fun.

‘I trust all your people are down and safe,’ the governor said, and I reluctantly relinquished my pleasant mental images in favour of the here and now.

‘They should be by this time,’ I said, with a quick glance at my chronometer. I glanced out of the armourcrys viewport which took up most of the ballroom’s outer wall, a stunning demonstration of our host’s wealth and power. Here, almost at the summit of the spire, the atmosphere beyond was so thin it might as well have been open space for all the chance you had of breathing it, rendering the view of the night sky with almost crystal clarity. The stars shone steadily, there not being enough air to scatter their light and make them shimmer, and the bright smear of the spiral arm stretched across the sky in a great diagonal arc. ‘In fact, that should be our last deployment shuttle now.’

I pointed to a randomly chosen speck of light, one of the uncountable myriad of moving dots in the clear sky above, performing a dance far more intricate than any taking place on the polished wooden floor behind us. There must have been hundreds of them: orbital docks and void stations, starships with cargoes to drop off or collect, intra-system barges like the one which had brought us here, and ten times as many shuttles stitching them to the world below. Of course some of those moving flecks of light could just as easily be eldar raiders, a disturbing thought I had to suppress by an act of pure will, reminding myself that they were probably still too far away to make out with the naked eye in any case.

Though not for long. I glanced down at the planet’s surface, over a dozen kilometres below us, far enough to have imparted a distinct curvature to the layer of murk blanketing the ground, in an effort to distract myself. Here and there in the distance glittering stalks of light thrust up from beneath the blanketing haze of industrial pollution, the spires of other hives, while the lower levels of our own glimmered faintly in the depths, punching through the enveloping haze of smog in a fitful, shifting glow which put me in mind of magma stirring at the bottom of a caldera.

Not a particularly comforting thought, given that a sufficiently concentrated barrage from the eldar battleships’ lance batteries could release the real thing from deep in the bowels of the world,[90] sending the spire we were standing on toppling like a rotted tree.

‘Then our defence is surely in safe hands,’ the governor said, without any detectable sarcasm, despite my best efforts to find some. ‘Will you be needed to supervise?’

I shook my head. ‘We have specialists in logistical matters,’ I said, ‘and our deployment will continue on schedule whether I’m there or not.’ Which went just as well for Kasteen and Broklaw, of course. ‘By the time the eldar arrive, we’ll be ready for them.’ At least I hoped we would, although what troopers with lasguns could do against a fleet of starships bristling with enough weapons to split the planet open like an overripe ploin if they felt like it was beyond me. But the first thing they teach you at the schola progenium, apart from where the balnearia are and how to fight dirty when the proctors’ backs are turned, is that the impression of confidence is almost as good as the real thing, especially when you’re trying to keep everyone’s chin up. And so long as the xenos hadn’t arrived yet, I could still cling to the hope that they might change their minds, get distracted by another source of booty, or that the Emperor might turn up in person to banish them. Which, to be fair, was about as likely as either of the other two possibilities.

‘Septimus.’ Amberley appeared at my elbow, with a guileless smile completely at odds with what I knew of her personality. ‘Won’t you introduce me to your dashing companion? I think you’ve monopolised him for quite long enough.’

‘Of course.’ Fulcher returned the smile, in the faintly condescending manner of someone who’s known from birth that they’ll always be the most important person in the room, and made vaguely introductory gestures in the space between us. ‘Milady Amberley Vail, a delightful transient from outsystem, the celebrated Commissar Ciaphas Cain, of whom we’ve heard so much.’

‘All of it greatly exaggerated, I’m sure,’ I said, accurately enough, and inclined my head in a formal greeting. That fitted the impression the governor had already formed of me, and I was frakked if I was going to caper about like a mummer in mystery play[91] trying to copy the local customs.

‘No doubt,’ Amberley said, with a mischievous smile. She slipped an arm through the crook of my elbow, and began steering me away from the governor with firm but subtle pressure. ‘If you’ll excuse us?’ She turned her face back towards mine. ‘There’s someone I’m simply dying to introduce you to.’

‘Have fun,’ Fulcher said, with a faintly indulgent smile, and immediately began to converse with a group of local aristocrats who’d been hovering while we’d talked, no doubt loath to interrupt us – a few of the younger-looking women (although given the aristocratic fondness for juvenat treatments, that wasn’t necessarily the most reliable indication of their actual vintage) shooting resentful glances at Amberley’s back as we retreated.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked, inflecting it casually in case we were overheard, but Amberley merely gave a barely visible shake of her head by way of reply.

‘Not here.’ She turned, apparently looking for someone, then nodded in quiet satisfaction at their evident absence. ‘One of the side rooms.’

‘Won’t the governor mind?’ I asked. She might have been on first-name terms with the fellow, but that didn’t necessarily mean she had the run of his palace.

‘What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,’ Amberley said, although in my experience it’s what you don’t know that does the most damage. She changed course a little to fetch up against the buffet table, and began to fill a plate. ‘Better stock up while you can. This could take some time.’

‘Should I get Kasteen and Broklaw over?’ I asked, raising a hand to tap the comm-bead in my ear, but Amberley shook her head.

‘Let them have their fun while they can,’ she said, adding a couple of palovine pastries to the heap of viands she’d already selected. ‘I’m not sure they’ll want to know about this anyway. You can fill them in afterwards if you disagree.’

‘Right.’ I nodded, even more convinced that I wasn’t going to enjoy the conversation we were about to have, even if the company could hardly have been more congenial. I began to fill a plate for myself, spooning up a large dollop of salma kedgeree, which I hemmed in with a slice of cottleston pie and a palovine pastry of my own. I hesitated over a platter of smoked meats, rejected them, and went instead for a slice of soft cheese which, in terms of aroma, gave Jurgen’s socks a good run for their money. Reasoning that I’d almost certainly be needing a clear head for the next couple of hours I reluctantly passed over the amasec bottles, settling instead for a beaker of ploin juice, which at least went some way towards counteracting the cheese with its own, more fragrant odour.

‘Sure you’ve got enough?’ Amberley asked, with a faint smile, although she seemed to have selected at least as much as I had.[92] She turned away, still speaking, and began to weave her way through the crowd of guests as lithely as a dancer. ‘This way.’

Lacking her grace and mobility I settled for walking determinedly forwards, letting my reputation and the sight of my sidearms clear the way for me, which it did almost as effectively as Jurgen would have done had he been there. Protocol would have permitted me to be accompanied by my aide, of course, but I’d left him to get my quarters sorted out, confident that he would have picked me a prime billet and have everything squared away by the time I needed it. He would hardly have blended in here, that was for certain, not to mention the fact that I hadn’t been entirely sure whether Amberley intended bringing her pet psyker along or not;[93] if she had, the last thing we needed would have been Jurgen’s gift being revealed by Rakel having a seizure in front of the governor and half the aristocrats on the planet.

Amberley led the way through a pair of curtains hanging heavily across one corner of the room. Sidling through behind her – not without some peril to the contents of my impromptu pile of provender – I found myself facing a doorway plastered, moulded and painted to blend in with the rest of the wall, which it did most effectively. Indeed, had it not been for the crack of light showing around the jamb where it had been left wedged open, it would have remained invisible to all but the most diligent of searchers. Shouldering it aside, I found myself in a narrow hallway, off which a number of doors led, each one as plain and unornamented as the whitewashed walls. Turning back to see if the one I’d entered through was the same (it was), I inadvertently nudged the small wooden wedge propping it open with the toe of my boot. With the inevitable result; with my hands full, I was unable to stop it clicking to.

‘Nads,’ I said, with feeling.

Amberley, who had paused a few paces further along, presumably to make sure I set off in the right direction, shrugged, juggling her own provisions as she did so. ‘No problem. It’ll open easily enough from this side.’

‘Which is where?’ I asked, already certain of the answer.

‘Servants’ corridor. Which none of them will be using tonight.’ She started moving again. ‘We want the third room on the left.’

‘Why?’ I asked, and Amberley glanced back at me with a slightly quizzical expression on her face.

‘Because it’s reasonably comfortable, no one uses it much, and I’ve got Flicker guarding the door on the public side.’

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘I meant why are the servants staying out of the way?’

‘Flicker had a word with them,’ Amberley said. ‘Money may have changed hands, or threats been made. Possibly both.’

‘I see,’ I said, and followed her into the room.

The room beyond was quiet, tastefully furnished with armchairs and occasional tables loaded with bric-a-brac, both apparently randomly distributed. What looked like wood panelling, but which a surreptitious poke revealed to be casting in some kind of resin,[94] covered the walls, which were largely concealed in their turn by tapestries depicting local heroes of whom I’d never heard slaughtering their enemies with unseemly gusto and gouts of crimson-threaded gore.

‘Commissar. All rising in yours?’ Zemelda greeted me in her own idiosyncratic version of Gothic, the street patois of her home world – or at least that small section of one city on it which had looked like being the only part of the galaxy she’d ever see until a pack of genestealer cultists, backed up by a handful of purestrains, had tried to kill Amberley and me on her snack-vending pitch. She was dressed as a lady’s maid, in keeping with Amberley’s cover, and almost looked the part if you ignored the bright purple hair and the bulge in the small of her back where she kept a laspistol holstered beneath the tabard covering her bodyglove.

‘Perfectly,’ I said, parsing the phrase as probably being an enquiry about my health, or general disposition at least, and returned the courtesy. ‘I trust you’re well?’

‘The summit,’ she assured me, which I took to be an affirmation, then slipped through the door we’d just entered by, drawing her laspistol as she went. The concealed panel clicked to behind her, leaving no trace of her passing.

‘Commissar.’ The man in the brown robe I’d seen Amberley speaking to before rose from one of the armchairs, with sufficient good manners to wait until I’d put my food and drink down on a nearby table top (displacing some hideous crystal cherubs to make room for them) before proffering a hand to shake. His voice was dry, and about as emotional as a tech-priest’s voxcoder. ‘Inquisitor Vail speaks very highly of you.’

‘You know she’s an inquisitor?’ I asked, assimilating this somewhat startling piece of information. In my experience Amberley only revealed her true vocation to a very select few: those whose aid she needed (who, like Jurgen and myself, generally moved into the second category if they survived the experience), members of her informal network of operatives and allies, and whichever heretics she was currently rounding up – who, by definition, were hardly going to be in a position to reveal her secret to anyone else.

‘As am I.’ He raised his hand, and an Inquisitorial sigil flashed into visibility in the palm of it: an electoo like the one Amberley had, confirming his identity without a doubt. ‘Rasmus Vekkman, of the Ordo Malleus.’

‘I said I was calling one of my colleagues in to deal with the cult we found on Drechia,’ Amberley reminded me. ‘Fortunately Inquisitor Vekkman was already on Ironfound.’

‘On Ironfound,’ I said, seating myself as comfortably as I could in a chair facing the one Vekkman had previously occupied, and to which, as I’d expected, he returned. In all honesty I’d have preferred to face Amberley, who I found far more congenial to the eye, but I trusted her, and the man in the brown robe was an unknown quantity. ‘Not Drechia.’

‘No.’ The strange inquisitor leaned forward a little, although there was no one else present who might have overheard. ‘I’ve been looking into rumours of heresy among the workers in the orbital anchorages here. They’re often the ones first affected by spiritual contagion, as it passes from system to system.’

‘Not just spiritual,’ Amberley said. ‘If there’s some xenos influence about, they’ll be the first ones exposed to it as well. I came here to break up a smuggling ring trading in t’au artefacts.’

‘Successfully, I hope,’ I said, more to preserve the illusion of small talk than because I actually cared.

Amberley smiled thinly. ‘I broke the network,’ she said. ‘But that led me to the webway portal in the sump, and the current eldar mess.’

‘Which is impeding my investigation,’ Vekkman said. ‘I had no idea that the cult had taken root on Drechia, and now that the eldar have been stirred up, getting there to take charge isn’t going to be easy.’

‘I have a ship,’ Amberley said, confirming my guess that the Externus Exterminatus was somewhere in orbit, probably pretending to be an ore scow or something, ‘but I’d rather not get any dents in it unless we have to.’

‘Too great a risk,’ Vekkman said, eyeing the plates of food Amberley and I had brought in with clear disapproval. ‘There’s no one else capable of dealing with a daemonic incursion in the entire system, and my death could damn it all. I’ll continue to liaise with the local authorities by vox until the eldar are no longer an impediment to navigation.’

‘That might take some time,’ I said, an understatement if ever I made one. ‘We have a Naval task force and Imperial Guard reinforcements on the way,’ thanks to Amberley’s Inquisitorial request cutting through the usual Administratum obstructiveness like a chainsword through gretchin, ‘but it’ll be a couple of months at least before they get here.’

‘And it would be a mistake to underestimate the eldar’s determination to retake this world,’ Amberley put in. ‘There’s an entire craftworld at the other end of the webway tunnel in the halo, and its resources are vast. Holding them off until reinforcements arrive isn’t going to be easy.’

‘None of which is my concern,’ Vekkman said. ‘I have leads to follow up on Ironfound, of course, but it’s on Drechia that the cult has broken cover.’

‘Not exactly broken,’ I said, thinking about that. ‘We stumbled across their meeting place by accident. In fact if it hadn’t been for Amb… Inquisitor Vail’s discovery of the webway portal on Drechia, and the eldar using it,’ which I thought sounded more tactful than the eldar she’d led there, ‘we’d have had no reason to enter that part of the tunnel complex at all.’

‘Granted,’ Vekkman said, nodding in a manner presumably intended to encourage me to continue, although I thought I’d pretty much made my point by then. ‘But they’d summoned a daemon. That sounds to me like they were getting ready to declare themselves in no uncertain terms.’

‘Quite so,’ I said, taking a mouthful of kedgeree by way of punctuation. This was his area of expertise, so I felt I should tread carefully in contradicting him. ‘But a minor one, as these things go. I’ve seen far more powerful.’ I thought I was going to have to go into details about the horrors I’d encountered aboard the mining barge Emeli had selected for her triumphant return to the materium, but Vekkman merely nodded.

‘Of course, the Adumbria incident. The Imperium owes you a great deal for that, commissar.’

‘I had quite a bit of help,’ I said, accurately enough – although, as usual, most of the credit had attached itself to me. ‘From the five hundred and ninety-seventh, mostly. But there were Tallarns there too.’ Probably best not to mention Beije, the Tallarns’ commissar, who’d come within a hair’s breadth of allowing his personal antipathy to me to hand the wretched place over to the Ruinous Powers, and definitely not a good idea to mention Jurgen, whose unique talents had weakened Emeli’s daemonic form enough at the crucial moment for our combined firepower to blast her back into the warp.

Amberley swallowed loudly, and chased the contents of her now empty plate with a slug of her drink. She looked in Vekkman’s direction with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

‘I take it no one’s been summoning daemons on Ironfound,’ she said. ‘Which means your primary focus should be Drechia.’

Vekkman shook his head. ‘Except that the reports I’m getting from the local arbitrator’s office are indicating few clear leads. Which, given how good they are at uncovering corruption among the upper echelons of society, points to a small, low-level conspiracy which has managed to escape detection not because they have powerful connections, but because they actually have none.’

‘I’d start with your dock workers,’ Amberley said. ‘See if any of your suspects are particularly close to specific ship crews. Then cross-reference those vessels with regular runs to Drechia. That’s how we track genestealer cults in the Ordo Xenos, although Chaos-worshippers might do things a little differently.’

‘The same thought had occurred to me,’ Vekkman agreed. ‘On balance, the cult on Drechia is most likely to be a recent offshoot of a longer-established one on Ironfound.’

‘So,’ I said, perhaps a little too firmly in an attempt to hide just how much I didn’t like the idea, ‘we’re agreed that we’re facing two potential threats instead of one.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Vekkman looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘There could be some connection between the cultists and the eldar. I gather Slaanesh is of particular significance to their race.’

‘They’re hardly friends,’ I said, ‘judging by what I saw in the temple we stumbled into. Their psykers carved up the daemon like kroot with a corpse.’

‘Kroot?’ Vekkman looked faintly confused for a moment. ‘Never mind. The eldar drove off the daemon, you say?’

‘They have a particular antipathy towards Slaanesh and its worshippers,’ Amberley said. ‘They believe it lies in wait to devour their souls at the point of death. There can be no question of the two factions collaborating under any circumstances.’

‘Maybe we can use that,’ I suggested. ‘Get them pitted against one another, and mop up what’s left. It’s worked before.’

‘Not under circumstances like these,’ Amberley said. ‘The cult’s hidden, gone to ground. The survivors aren’t about to pop up raring to take on the eldar, and they wouldn’t last five minutes if they did.’

‘I agree,’ Vekkman said. ‘It would be more in their interest to stay hidden, and build up their power base during the reconstruction phase after the xenos have been driven off.’ He nodded judiciously in Amberley’s direction. ‘If your notion of the Drechia cult being an offshoot is correct, then that would imply a longer-hidden, deeper-rooted one here on Ironfound. I’ll be moving the focus of my enquiries here to Holdvast, as this would be the most likely centre of it.’

‘Good luck,’ I said, feeling that if he was about to tackle a job like that he was certainly going to need it.

Come to that, with an eldar fleet due in orbit within a matter of hours, so would the rest of us.

Editorial Note:

Once again, Cain provides frustratingly little detail about his surroundings, beyond whatever aspects of his immediate environment affect him personally. This seems as good a place as any, therefore, to redress this deficiency by interpolating a little more background information.

From Interesting Places and Tedious People: A Wanderer’s Waybook by Jerval Sekara, 145 M39

The Ironfound System is, in general, unremarkable, with the exception of an unusually large radiating gas giant on its very fringes, the moons of which form a veritable miniature solar system of their own, with the planet in place of its primary.

Since most starfaring vessels enter and leave the warp far closer in to the centre of the system, making either for the world of Ironfound itself or the peculiar subsystem on its outskirts, the two might just as well be orbiting different stars for most purposes; the one real difference being the steady stream of ore barges shuttling between the two centres, conveying raw materials to the forges of Ironfound in one direction, and essential supplies to the mines of the Avernus subsystem in the other.

Of the two potential destinations, Ironfound is by far the more welcoming, although the world itself is given over entirely to the processing of the raw materials so abundant elsewhere in the system (though not on the planet itself for several millennia, due to the thoroughness with which they were extracted) and the manufacture of innumerable items of minimal interest.

The discerning wayfarer will probably seek lodging in Holdvast, since this is the oldest, largest and most populous hive on the planet. Travellers are advised to be aware of the destination of the surface shuttle on which they embark, since there are several landing pads at different levels of the hive, and a moment’s inattention can result in boarding a ship bound for one on the industrial levels, which are insalubrious in the extreme. Far better to opt for a shuttle landing on the upper pads at the very top of the spire, where a spectacular view of the purple skies of the upper atmosphere, speckled with the lights of the orbiting ships and structures which catch the sunlight, can be enjoyed through the armourcrys roof of the passenger terminal.

From here, one can pass through the very highest stratum – both of infrastructure and society, since the mansion of the planetary governor occupies much of the highest habitation level, the rest being given over to gardens and statuary open to all for the payment of a modest fee.

From this point, the discerning wayfarer may descend to a level commensurate with their means and status, although these may not entirely coincide.

The highest kilometre or so of the spire is given over to the wealthiest and best connected of the local aristocracy, then the minor noble houses, most prosperous entrepreneurs and the like. Here accommodation may be rented for quite reasonable rates, should a traveller wish to retain an establishment of their own for the duration of their sojourn.

Descending further brings the wayfarer to the lowest stratum where a comfortable stay is assured, where the villas of the well-to-do trading classes nestle comfortably among wide boulevards, copiously endowed with emporia of all kinds, a wide variety of restaurants and other such amenities, and many forms of entertainment, such as theatres, music halls and public holo displays.

Those in search of less wholesome pastimes will be constrained to seek them in the lower levels, where the artisan classes gather, and where the ambience is commensurately less pleasant and reassuring.

Below these are the manufactoria, which are of no interest whatsoever, reportedly issuing vast quantities of effluvia, noise and noxious vapours, which the discerning wayfarer will avoid having to experience.

In common with most such Imperial habitations, below these the underhive begins, a wretched sink of villainous and debased humanity in which it is most unwise to even contemplate venturing. Though intrepid travellers from the upper levels do occasionally find themselves compelled to enter this dark nether world, driven by necessity or the desire for profit, they do so only in armed bands, escorted by professional guards of the roughest and most uncouth sort, returning with occasional items of value and stories scarce to be believed.

In short, this is a system in which the weary traveller may find the time to rest and recuperate in reasonable comfort, but which offers little in the way of inducements to remain for very long.

Eleven

My first impression of the governor being a man far more astute than he liked to pretend was borne out the following day, in the form of a summons to brief him properly about our plans for the defence of his planet. Although it was worded as a polite invitation, there was no question that he expected anything other than a prompt acceptance. I could have told him to go frak himself, of course, but under the circumstances I decided to go along with it; there was nothing to be gained from hacking the man off, and after the gubernatorial indifference we’d faced on Drechia, dealing with a specimen of the Emperor’s anointed who actually seemed to be taking an interest was a welcome novelty. Besides which, I’d been favourably impressed by both his cellar and his kitchen the previous evening, and welcomed the excuse to explore both in greater depth.

‘I could go,’ I said, raising my voice over the clamour of our new command centre, which was still in the process of being set up. A gaggle of cogboys was bustling about plugging equipment in, stringing cables which were not so much trip hazards as potential booby traps, and occasionally electrocuting themselves (which, to be fair, didn’t seem to discommode them much, given how high a proportion of the average tech-priest tends to be metal – some even seemed to enjoy the experience), while others chanted benedictions, affixed the appropriate prayer scrolls to the control lecterns, dripped sanctified lubricants into the brass cogs of their cogitator banks, and disappeared behind clouds of choking incense. Around them, the troopers supposed to be manning the place were doing their best to get their own jobs done, firing up the newly installed vox and auspex equipment, lugging boxes and furniture about, drinking tanna and recaff, and arguing about whose fault it was something still wasn’t ready yet.

In other words, business as usual at this stage of a deployment, and, despite the noise and untidiness, one I found strangely reassuring. I knew from experience that before long order would emerge from the chaos around us, and the information we needed to face the enemy and, Throne willing, prevent them from gaining a foothold on Ironfound, would begin to flow. In the meantime there wasn’t a lot I could do here, beyond routine paperwork I’d already delegated to Jurgen.

‘I’d be grateful,’ Kasteen said, gulping recaff with the air of someone who was tired but still relishing the process of having got that way. ‘The regiment needs a representative, and you’re good at all that diplomacy stuff.’ She and Broklaw had also been invited to attend by the governor, but that simply wasn’t going to happen now we were properly stuck in to the process of getting combat ready. (Not that we ever weren’t, really, but the whole thing would be a lot easier with the command centre up and running, and the sooner that was sorted out the better.)

‘Consider it done,’ I said. ‘I’m only getting underfoot here anyway.’ I surveyed the cavernous space, which had once formed part of a manufactorum if I was any judge, an impression confirmed by the faint vibration which pervaded the place from whatever processes continued nearby, with a wry smile. ‘You and Ruput seem to be doing all the hard work.’

‘If you say so,’ Kasteen said, with a glance across the huge chamber to where the major was arguing with one of the more senior tech-priests. ‘I’d like to send him with you, but until we have our own eyes and ears we’re going to be reliant on the planetary defence force to track the enemy’s movements, and he’s the designated liaison.’ A faint moue of distaste and the tone of her voice were enough to tell me just how much she didn’t like that state of affairs. ‘Protocol dictates you should be accompanied by someone in the chain of command, though.’

‘Then protocol can go kiss an ork,’ I said. ‘We’re here to give the eldar a bloody nose, not mince about ticking off instructions from an etiquette manual.’

Kasteen laughed, sending a spurt of dark brown liquid sloshing over the rim of her mug. ‘Fair point,’ she said, ‘made with your usual tact and eloquence. Let’s hope it works on the governor.’

A hope I must confess I shared, as I began my journey back to the tip of the spire. Our new command centre was situated in what I felt to be the optimum position – although I’d had nothing to do with selecting it, and had no idea who to thank[95] – on one of the upper levels of the manufactorum tiers. This gave us good access to the rest of the hab zones above through the hive’s own internal transport system, while leaving us well placed to counter any upward attacks the xenos might make from the depths of the underhive as well. Or mount our own patrols down into it, as I strongly suspected Kasteen was going to order as soon as we were ready to do so.

The one thing about our location which I found faintly disquieting was that, although it was near the centre of the hive, some dozen kilometres from the nearest external wall, it was perfectly placed to be caught between eldar descending from the spire and rising from the underhive, if the invasion force was able to breach our outer defences and gain access to the interior at the same time as they got the webway portal dug out.

Not a thought I was comfortable with, so I pushed it to the back of my mind as I boarded the flyer the governor had sent down for me. I could have made my way up the spire on the funicular which connected many of the levels, or simply driven up the interconnecting network of roads, ramps and tunnels which riddled the structure like veins and arteries, and had I realised how eventful the short hop was going to be I would certainly have done so – but I remained in blissful ignorance, and opted for the fast route. If I’m entirely honest, this choice was also influenced by an element of egotism;[96] I was flattered that the governor had put the flyer at my disposal, and felt it would be diplomatically expedient to accept the offer. Not to mention the fact that, in my experience, the personal transports of the rich and powerful tended to be a good deal more comfortable than being rattled about in the back of a Salamander by Jurgen. Which, of course, turned out to be a necessary precursor for getting to the landing pad in any case – a task he accomplished in a little over five minutes, without causing too much damage on the way.

‘Will that be all?’ he asked, in a faintly pointed manner as I clambered out and straightened my cap, gunning the engine as he spoke. He clearly felt that my position and status would be weakened by his absence, the presence of an aide being a universal signifier of importance, and would probably sulk for days about the perceived slight if I didn’t do something to smooth his ruffled feelings.

So I nodded, in a confidential fashion. ‘I’m afraid so,’ I said, ‘much as I’d prefer you to accompany me. But I’d feel a lot happier knowing that at least one of us will be instantly available if Inquisitor Vail needs our assistance.’

‘Of course, sir.’ He nodded too, in a faintly proud way. ‘You can rely on me to give her any help she needs.’

‘I don’t doubt that,’ I said. ‘There’s no one I trust more.’ Which happened to be true, as well as the most expedient thing to say at the time.

Thoroughly mollified, Jurgen roared off to terrorise the innocent motorists of downhive Holdvast again, leaving me to make my way over to the landing pad on foot.

As I’d expected, this turned out to be an enclosed space: the air outside was no more breathable than on most Imperial manufacturing worlds, so the air car that had been sent to collect me squatted in the centre of a lift platform large enough to have accommodated a heavy cargo shuttle[97] with room to spare, shrunken by its surroundings to the apparent dimensions of a child’s toy. As I approached it, however, my boot soles ringing on the scorched metal mesh of the platform’s surface, it grew to something large enough to have accommodated three people in comfort. The passenger door was open, the ducted fan at each corner of the vehicle humming idly, punctuated by the occasional screech of an inadequately greased bearing, keeping it hovering a dozen centimetres or so above the floor.

‘Good morning.’ I clambered in, with a nod to the chauffeur, isolated behind a transparent partition, but I might as well have saved my breath for all the response I got. Only later did it occur to me that it must have been soundproofed, so that whoever was being ferried about could discuss their affairs, either of state or of a personal nature, without being overheard by the hired help.[98] He must have seen me embark, however, for he poked at something the moment I was seated; the door swung closed with a solidly reassuring thunk, the whine of the fans increased in pitch and the whole vehicle lurched into motion. Used to Jurgen’s robust approach to driving I adjusted my balance instinctively, although I have to confess to feeling faintly surprised: I would have thought the governor’s personal chauffeur would have had a far lighter touch on the controls. The air car soon steadied, however, and the roof above our heads began to retract, splitting down the middle as it did so. Thick yellow smog began to curl its way through the widening gap, nothing of the sky beyond being visible – which, to be honest, I suspected was probably the usual state of affairs where Ironfound was concerned.

‘Ciaphas.’ Kasteen’s voice cut into my earpiece. ‘Are you airborne yet?’

‘Pretty much,’ I said, as another sudden lurch shook the air car. ‘Steady on!’

‘Say again?’ Kasteen said, a note of puzzlement entering her voice.

‘Not you, sorry.’ I leaned forward, rapping sharply on the glass, but the chauffeur didn’t respond, merely reaching out for the lever which controlled the pitch of the fan. This time the jerk[99] pinned me back in my seat as he lifted the nose and sent us barrelling skyward through the still widening gap. I glanced round, seeing no more of our surroundings than I expected to, vague glimpses of towering structures and hurtling aerial traffic flaring into view before vanishing back into the murk, which glowed orange in the light it was swallowing from waylights, luminators and the occasional burst of flame or electrical discharge. ‘You can tell the governor I’m on my way.’

‘I’d rather you turned back,’ Kasteen said. ‘We’ve got the augurs up and running, and connected to a feed from local traffic control.’

‘Good,’ I said, still not quite grasping what she was driving at. ‘Picking up anything interesting?’

‘You might say that,’ Kasteen said. ‘We’ve got some contacts inbound at a hell of a lick. No transponder signal, so they’re not military, and moving far too fast for civilian traffic.’

‘Missiles?’ I asked, jumping to the obvious conclusion. If they were, and the eldar were hoping to crack the hive with them, any payload they carried had to be so big there was no point in running for cover in any case.

‘Profile looks more like jetbikes,’ Broklaw said. ‘Three of them, moving in formation. Throne alone knows where they could have come from, though.’

‘The eldar ships that followed us in,’ I said. ‘They weren’t after us at all, they were dropping scouts.’

‘Sounds reasonable,’ Kasteen agreed. ‘I never really bought the idea that they’d go to all that trouble just to take out a couple of batteries on one of the orbital docks.’

‘I really think you should get back inside,’ Broklaw said. ‘If they realise you’re out in the open, you’ll go straight to the top of their target list.’

A thought, I’m bound to say, which had already occurred to me.

I leaned forward, and knocked on the partition separating me from the chauffeur. ‘Turn round,’ I instructed, with all the calm authority I could muster. The fellow ignored me, and I knocked a little harder. ‘Turn this thing around, or by the Emperor and all His saints, I’ll have words with the governor about you.’

He continued to stare forward, ignoring everything I said. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d started off without being instructed to, I’d probably have thought he was a servitor by now. My palms began to tingle. This definitely wasn’t right. I found my hands hovering instinctively close to my weapons. One last try, I thought, and drew the laspistol, using the heavy butt to hammer against the fragile-seeming barrier between us. It starred and began to fracture, and I found myself wondering how I was going to explain the damage to Fulcher when I saw him.

This time I did get a reaction, though not the one I’d been expecting. Without any change of expression, the chauffeur simply reached down under the dashboard and pulled out a bolt pistol. Nothing fancy, like the mastercrafted one I’d gifted to Amberley, just plain dull metal without any ornate engraving on it, but it certainly looked capable of doing the job. Still without a word he turned, and fired at me through the armourcrys.

Which was a mistake on his part, the crazing I’d inflicted on it with the butt of my own weapon no doubt blurring the image from his side; if he’d taken the time to retract it first he’d have had a clear shot at me. Perhaps he thought he’d be giving me too much warning if he did that, though, and perhaps he’d even have been right, but the point was moot in any case. The transparent screen was, despite the damage, still strong enough for the bolt to detonate against it. The sharp crack of the explosion jolted my eardrums in the confined space, and the partition shattered, filling the interior of the car with razor-edged shards. I ducked my head instinctively, letting the peak of my cap protect my eyes and most of my face, although a few fragments still stung my cheeks, scoring bloody trails as they impacted.

Even so, I’d fared better than my would-be assassin. His face was now a bloody mask, in which his remaining eye gleamed with an unhealthy fervour. He raised the weapon again, but I was quicker, and put a las-bolt through his brain before he had a chance to retaliate. My assailant slumped back against the controls, the air car lurched, and began to plummet towards the ground.

‘Ciaphas! What’s going on?’ Kasteen’s voice was tight with tension. ‘That sounded like shots.’

‘They were,’ I responded tersely, reaching through the gap in the partition and heaving at the now literally dead weight of the chauffeur. His body slumped to one side, the sleeve of his jacket catching on something, and the air car began to rotate in the air as well as plunging towards the ground. Better and better.

Giving up on the futile attempt to manipulate the chauffeur’s cadaver through such a narrow gap I drew my chainsword and attacked the thin sheet of metal dividing the car. It tore open under the whirling teeth with a screech of metal and a shower of sparks, not to mention the odd gobbet of deceased assassin; within seconds I’d made enough of a gap to pull a large section of it out of the way.

‘Come on, you festering ratbag.’ I heaved at the deceased assassin again, the muscles in my back cracking as I fought to lift him off the dashboard and the control column. By great good fortune the latch of the pilot’s door was just within reach, and I managed to trip it just as the plummeting air car twisted in that direction. A gush of lung-searing effluvia burst into the compartment, blurring my vision, and the fellow vanished, aided on his way by gravity, centrifugal force and a last heave from me to bring him clear of the controls. In fact, so abrupt was his departure that I almost followed him, and probably would have done if I hadn’t managed to grab the headrest of the pilot’s seat for long enough to smack the door control again.[100] It closed, the air recirculators gradually mitigating the worst effects of the filth I was trying to breathe, although they seemed to be working flat out to do so, and I scrambled into the pilot’s seat – though not without some degree of difficulty, my greatcoat catching on some jagged edge of the demolished partition before giving way with a loud ripping sound.

‘Ciaphas. Can you hear me?’ Kasteen asked, an almost flattering amount of concern in her voice. ‘What’s happening?’

‘I’ve just dropped the pilot,’ I said, grabbing the control column and pulling it back. The flyer’s nose came up, just in time for me to see the vast slab of a cargo shuttle’s hull slipping past far too close for comfort, its engines burning brightly through the all-encompassing fog. I missed the wall of metal by what seemed like millimetres, although it was probably a bit more than that, and glanced round frantically for the next thing I was about to hit. ‘He tried to shoot me.’

‘Are you all right?’ Broklaw asked.

‘For the moment,’ I assured him. ‘But I’m still crashing a bit.’

I scanned the controls, trying to get the measure of them. It was scant consolation, but the vehicle’s machine-spirit seemed to be panicking almost as much as I was, lights flickering all across the dashboard, accompanied by a cacophony of squeaks and chirruping. A pict display seemed to be urging me to feed more power to a couple of the fans and throttle back the other two, so I complied as best I could, reasoning that the array of four levers next to the control column was probably linked to them in some way.

To my immense relief this proved to be the case, and after a bit of poking and prodding I managed to level out and stop spinning, which did my stomach and inner ear no end of good; I’d have hated to have to present myself at the Golden Throne with the last couple of meals staining my greatcoat. The cascade of rapidly diminishing numbers in the altimeter slowed, steadied and began to inch upwards again as I pulled back cautiously on the control column; it seemed I’d regained control with only a couple of hundred metres left to spare before making a dent in whatever was immediately below. I tried to work out how much time that would have been, then gave up, because it was far too low to be comforting.

‘I’m all right,’ I voxed, still feeling faintly surprised by my own words. I had no idea where I was, but a course to the governor’s palace seemed to have been given to the machine-spirit, which was dutifully displaying it on the pict screen in front of me. Since I didn’t have a clue how to find the command centre from here, and Fulcher was certain to have a better class of amasec than the bottle currently waiting for me in my quarters, I decided I might as well follow the directions I was being given. ‘If someone could apologise to the governor for the delay, I ought not to be too late arriving.’

‘Are you sure?’ Kasteen sounded both relieved and surprised. ‘We still don’t know what those eldar contacts are up to.’

‘All the more reason to attend the meeting,’ I said. ‘Maybe someone there will have an idea.’ I brought the flyer’s nose up a little more. Now it had stopped panicking, it seemed the machine-spirit was taking care of varying the pitch of the fans all by itself, so all I had to do was point the nose in the direction I wanted to go and let the Omnissiah take care of the rest. Which was fine by me.

‘The planetary defence force have scrambled a flight of Lightnings to intercept them,’ Broklaw said, sounding faintly surprised by their efficiency. ‘No contact reported yet.’

‘Good,’ I replied, starting to feel a little better about the turn events had taken. There was no guarantee that the sortie would come to anything, of course, but the notion of having a trio of heavily armed fighter planes between me and whatever the eldar vessel had deployed was distinctly reassuring. ‘Keep me updated.’

‘Of course,’ Kasteen said, and cut the link.

Twelve

Now I was beginning to get the hang of the air car’s controls, I found I was quite enjoying the sensation of piloting it. Feeling the agile little craft responding to every nudge of the control column was a pleasant novelty, and one I might have savoured to the full in less-crowded skies. As it was, I proceeded cautiously, peering through the murk surrounding me, wary of colliding with something big enough to swat me from the air. Fortunately the course suggested by the machine-spirit took me in a wide, gradually rising spiral around the main spire, which meant that there was little in the way of ancillary infrastructure to collide with, and the onboard ident beacon was transmitting a code reserved for the governor and his household, so everything but the largest and least manoeuvrable cargo haulers lost no time in getting out of my way.

Of course speculating about the identity and motive of my would-be assassin took up a good deal of my attention too. My first instinct was to contact Amberley and see if she could throw any light on the matter, but I couldn’t be sure that my vox transmission wouldn’t be monitored by some eavesdropping device concealed aboard the flyer: if whoever was behind the attempt on my life was unaware of my avocation as an occasional, and invariably reluctant, agent of the Inquisition, letting them know about Amberley and her mission wasn’t likely to end well. Besides, I had no doubt that she’d hear of it sooner rather than later, and take whatever steps were necessary to protect herself.[101] The would-be assassin had definitely been human, and the eldar weren’t known for using collaborators, so the most likely candidates were the Chaos cult we’d uncovered on Drechia. Why they’d bother trying to assassinate me, only the Emperor knew; but then Chaos worshippers are bonkers by definition, so it’s usually a waste of time even trying to find a rational motive for anything they do.

Inquisitor Vekkman might have some ideas, although I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to talk to him; Amberley clearly thought he should be kept at arm’s length, and that was good enough for me. Probably the best thing I could do would be to consult her at the earliest opportunity, and leave it to her to tell the other inquisitor as much as she deemed appropriate if she thought it would do any good.

Thus musing, and concentrating on manipulating the control column, which I found I had to do quite frequently to avoid drifting away from the course I was attempting to follow, it was some time before I realised that the murk surrounding me was a little less dense than it had been. The running lights of the other flyers and shuttles in the air were shining out more strongly, and the dim outlines of hulls connecting them had become more visible. The spire itself began to appear too, a vast shadow in the shifting yellow fog, gradually taking on a form and solidity which would dwarf mountains.

A short while later I found myself rising above the smog layer entirely, the air clearing with a suddenness which took me completely by surprise,[102] and laying the entire spire open to view, rising from the layer of foul, discoloured air like an ancient tree from the foetid waters of a swamp. At this altitude it was scarcely a dozen kilometres across,[103] rising to an elegant summit no more than a couple of klom from one side to the other. Looking upwards, I could see innumerable cargo vessels, still too far away to make out as anything other than tiny dots, circulating in a complicated arabesque like a cloud of midges over stagnant water[104] as they arrived at and departed from the upper docks. Between there and wherever I was, the sky seethed with other airborne traffic, swarming up and down the length of the spire and diving into the cloacal clouds below to reach the bulk of the hive itself. Many were arriving and departing at landing platforms and docking ports clinging to the outside structure, the relatively short trip around the exterior still being a good deal faster than trusting to the hive’s internal transport system.

Though I was no more than about halfway through my leisurely climb, the sky was beginning to darken in colour, taking on the fresh bruise tint that presages the threshold of space. While intellectually I knew it was nowhere near tall enough, I found myself wondering if it actually passed beyond the limits of the atmosphere. It was partially to reassure myself of the ridiculousness of the notion that I glanced outward, towards the far distant gnomon of another spire rising out of the cloud bank, and thus inadvertently saved my own life.

Two air cars, almost identical to my own except for being painted black instead of blue and gold,[105] were closing fast from above, and from outside the normal traffic lanes. The other big difference between our respective vehicles was the heavy bolter slung under each of them, centrally mounted, and shooting in my direction.

If you’ve read many of my ramblings, you won’t be surprised to find that my first instinct was to evade. I brought the nose up and fed power to the fans, both of which elicited squeals of protest from the little vehicle’s machine-spirit. I didn’t have time to remonstrate with it, however, opening the throttle to its limits and clawing for height; though hardly proficient at aerial combat, I’d spent enough time in enemy airspace to know just how vital being higher than your opponent could be.

‘Mayday, mayday, mayday,’ I transmitted, just to be on the safe side. ‘This is Commissar Cain, under attack by enemy aircraft.’ If the Lightnings Kasteen had told me about were still anywhere in the vicinity, they’d certainly make short work of the relatively light and slow-moving air cars; if the eldar scouts weren’t already keeping their hands full, of course.

‘Responding,’ Kasteen’s voice said in my ear. ‘We’re trying to get the defence force to put something in the air to support you. The Lightnings are still five minutes out at least.’

‘Acknowledged,’ I said, trying to sound calm, and probably not succeeding very well. ‘Any sign of the eldar?’

‘Not yet,’ Kasteen said. ‘But if they get below the smog layer…’

The fighter pilots wouldn’t get so much as a glimpse of them. Since there was nothing I could do about that, I immediately dismissed the matter; if I allowed myself to get distracted by potential threats now, I’d be dead from the actual one long before the flyboys turned up to avenge me.

The two sinister black air cars turned to follow my change of course, tracer rounds from their weapons floating lazily past my windscreen in the tenuous air. If any of the bolts hit, and there’d be at least five times as many rounds I couldn’t see, the flimsy civilian vehicle would be shredded – and at this altitude I couldn’t hope to stay conscious for more than a few seconds if the hull was breached.

‘Commissar,’ a fresh voice cut in. It sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it until it spoke again. ‘This is Governor Fulcher. I’ve despatched some of my personal guard to relieve you. They’ll be there in minutes.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, as politely as I could manage under the circumstances. Like the Lightnings, it sounded as though they’d be minutes I didn’t have. Seeing the tracer closing in on my position I cut the power to all four fans, dropping like a stone, and watched the two streams intersect exactly where I would have been a few seconds later. But though I’d managed to save my skin in the short term, in so doing I’d squandered the advantages of altitude. The pursuing air cars turned, and began to swoop towards me, their ventrally mounted weapons spitting again. I fumbled at the array of levers, and shot upwards and backwards – a good deal more quickly than I’d intended – before getting the vehicle back under control.

Once again the intended attack struck home against where I no longer was, but I couldn’t keep trusting to luck (and, if I’m honest, my lack of proficiency at the controls taking the pilots who knew what they were doing by surprise) for much longer. ‘Governor,’ I said, ‘does this thing have any weapons?’

‘Of course it doesn’t,’ he said, sounding faintly bewildered. ‘It’s an air car.’

‘So are the ones shooting at me,’ I said, a little more brusquely than I intended, ‘and that doesn’t seem to be stopping them.’

One day I’m going to learn to stop feeding the Emperor straight lines. No sooner had the words left my mouth than one of the explosive projectiles did hit home, detonating against the bodywork, and missing the front right fan mounting by a handful of centimetres and the grace of the Emperor. I felt the whole vehicle lurch, and fought to regain control, banking into the tightest dive I could manage in the hope of shaking them off. No such luck, of course; they both turned and dived after me, the civilian traffic scattering in panic as we powered down the side of the spire, close enough to make out faces staring from the viewports and the occasional void-suited spirejack, who broke off whatever they were doing to stare after us in astonishment.

To my relief, the passenger compartment didn’t seem to have been breached by the detonation, which, grateful as I was for the fact, confused me rather; only later did I realise that a vehicle intended to be ridden in by the governor was bound to be armoured rather more thickly than would be apparent at first sight.

‘Can you shake them off?’ Kasteen asked, and I found myself shaking my head from force of habit as I responded.

‘Not a chance,’ I said. The weight and drag of the bolters, which I was pretty sure hadn’t been installed by the original manufacturer, was probably impeding my pursuers as much as the mass of the armour was degrading the performance of my own flyer, but they were used to piloting these things, and I wasn’t – and, as I’d already discovered, blind luck can only last so long against superior skill. As if to emphasise the point, the air car lurched again as another bolt hit and detonated; this time a red warning icon, the precise meaning of which escaped me but the gist of which was pretty clear, lit up on the dashboard. I poked at the controls, and tried to turn, finding the little flyer noticeably less responsive than it had been. ‘One of the rear fans has been damaged.’ Making me a sitting target. I jinked frantically, but the two enemy air cars were nailed to my six[106] now, taking their time to line up a killing shot.

Which, ironically, was their undoing. Had they simply opened up immediately, relying on the hail of bolts to inflict a hit, they’d almost certainly have done enough damage to send me plummeting from the skies to my death. But for whatever reason, they were spending a few precious seconds to make sure of it.[107] So I was probably as surprised as they were when the leading air car disintegrated in mid-air, ripped apart by a hail of eldar shuriken.

‘I’ve found the missing eldar,’ I voxed Kasteen, although it would probably have been more accurate to have said that they’d found me. A trio of heavy jetbikes, the pilots tucked away in enclosed cockpits while their gunners spat heavy ordnance from an exposed pillion seat – which seemed like a distinctly uncomfortable arrangement to me – were soaring up out of the concealing smog below, blazing away with everything they had. ‘Three Vypers, in close formation. Not looking friendly.’ Like the eldar we’d faced on Drechia they were liveried in green with purple trim, a combination which put me in mind of the carnivorous plants of Mychtarsh[108] – not a particularly comforting association. The surviving air car jinked frantically, banking and diving for the refuge of the cloacal clouds below, but it was a futile endeavour, the eldar craft turning to follow it with balletic precision. A krak warhead detonated against the marauder’s canopy, blowing the roof off and sending its luckless pilot spinning out into the void. A moment later, what was left of the bodywork was shredded by a hail of fire from a shuriken cannon.

Then all three eldar raiders banked smoothly round and began to climb in a rising spiral, chasing one another’s tails; with a distinct sinking feeling I realised that my relatively ponderous air car was at the centre of the circle they were describing. I began to climb, putting off the inevitable for as long as possible, already aware that I could only buy myself a handful of seconds, but even that was better than nothing. To my surprise they were holding their fire, but I was under no illusion that such a happy state of affairs would be continuing; to be honest I was a little baffled as to why they hadn’t finished me off already.

‘They’re closing in,’ I told Kasteen. ‘May the Emperor protect you all.’ Which might strike you as a surprisingly pious sentiment for what I honestly imagined were to be my last words, apart from a probable ‘oh frak,’ on the way down, but it was the sort of thing someone with a reputation like mine was supposed to say, and it would play well with posterity. Besides, a small part of me was still assessing the options, refusing to give up hope before I actually hit the ground, which, given the number of times I’d already escaped death by millimetres, was hardly surprising; I’d cheated the reaper on those occasions by sheer bloody-minded refusal to accept the inevitable, and saw no reason not to do the same now. If by some miracle I did manage to survive this, it certainly wouldn’t hurt my standing among the troopers if my putative last thoughts had been of them, and a prayer for their welfare rather than my own. (Not to mention the fact that if I was about to meet the Emperor in person, it probably wouldn’t hurt to have made a good impression prior to my arrival.[109])

I glanced to the left, finding one of the Vypers pacing me, the gunner swinging their heavy weapon in my direction, while another slotted neatly into place above me, and the third behind and below. No chance of repeating the trick which had discommoded the air cars, then. If I cut the power to the fans, this time I’d simply drop straight through the lower eldar’s line of fire. If I put the nose up and tried to climb, the one above would get me, and if I turned right the one next to me would still have a clear shot. I was completely boxed in.

Unless I swung left instead, and rammed the Vyper pacing me. That would be pretty much suicidal, of course – but ‘pretty much’ isn’t the same as ‘definitely,’ and staying where I was certainly didn’t look like an option. In situations like this, I’ve found, it’s better simply to act before your self-preservation instincts kick in, rather than think about what you’re about to do long enough to have to argue with your subconscious, so I took a firmer grip on the control column, before glancing across at the Vyper preparatory to yanking it hard over.

And found myself looking straight into the pilot’s eyes. For a timeless second our gazes locked, then I completed the movement I’d begun, swerving the air car right at the eldar flyer a handful of metres away, and bracing myself for the impact.

Which never came. The Vyper swung smoothly out of my path, maintaining the separation between us almost to the millimetre. Then all three of them tilted their noses skyward, and soared upwards, vanishing from view within moments, lost among the myriad of motes dancing in the sky around the spire.

‘Taupe leader, we have a visual, and are in pursuit,’ a fresh voice crackled in my vox, and the air shook around me with a thunder of afterburners. The Lightnings ripped through the sky, their distinctive swept-forward wings making them stand out vividly against the weather-ravaged ’crete of the spire’s outer cladding – then they were past and away, creating more of a flurry in the local traffic patterns than the eldar ever managed. A second later the shock wave of their passing hit, leaving my damaged air car bobbing like a cork in a wastefall.

Straightening up and steadying my flight path took up most of my attention for a moment or two, and by the time I had any to spare for my surroundings again I’d already acquired new, and far more welcome, company. A couple of armed grav-speeders, in the same gubernatorial livery as what was left of the car I was piloting, were pacing me. My vox-bead crackled again.

‘Governor Fulcher’s compliments, commissar. We’ve been sent to escort you in.’

‘Much obliged,’ I said, and waved to them with all the insouciance I could muster. ‘I think I’ve had enough sightseeing for one day.’

Thirteen

I was greeted on my arrival by Fulcher himself, accompanied, as befitted his status, by a platoon of flunkies and hangers-on.[110] The grav-speeders had guided me to a small hangar in the outer wall of the spire, no more than a couple of hundred metres below the summit. I put the air car down with an almost overwhelming sense of relief as the outer doors began to grind closed behind us, settling it in the middle of a somewhat scuffed mosaic, in which the Imperial aquila and the Fulcher family crest had been jammed together to the aesthetic benefit of neither.

I powered down the lifting fans the moment the landing skids touched, with a silent benediction of appreciation to the Omnissiah for the robustness of the little vehicle which had served me so well, waiting for the blades to whisper into silence and the surrounding space to pressurise. After a few moments I noticed the grav-speeder pilots cracking their cockpits, and, reasoning it was safe to disembark, lost no time in doing so myself.

‘Smart work,’ I said, buttonholing the one I took to be the flight commander from the more elaborate rank insignia on her helmet, before turning to shake hands with her wingman as well. ‘I thought I was done for until you saw the blighters off.’ Which hadn’t exactly been true – the Lightnings had got there first. But I knew from long experience that spreading the credit around generally made more of it stick to me, and to be fair I’d been happy enough to see them arrive.

‘Just doing our job, sir.’ The flight commander shrugged, clearly no novice at that game herself, and turned towards the main door leading to the spire’s interior, coming to attention as she did so. This was, of course, large enough to admit cargoes and whatever heavy equipment might be required to attend to the resident vehicles, so Fulcher and his retinue were able to surge through it pretty much en masse – although no one, I noted, came through ahead of the governor himself.

‘Commissar. We meet again.’ Fulcher bowed formally, to which I responded with a nod, which I judged would be an acceptable response in keeping with my exaggerated reputation. ‘My profound apologies for the incivility of your welcome.’

‘Hardly your fault, your excellency,’ I said, noting the more formal manner in which he was conducting himself in front of the overdressed rabble, among which his own gold-and-blue robes stood out like a beacon of modesty and restraint, and pitching my reply accordingly.

He shook his head with an artistic touch of ruefulness. ‘I beg to differ, commissar. My position makes me responsible for everything which happens here.’ He turned to a grim-visaged man of apparent middle age, whose blue uniform with gold trim marked him out as someone of high rank among the household troops, probably their commander. ‘What happened, exactly?’

To his credit, the fellow didn’t seem particularly put out by the question. ‘Our investigation is continuing, your excellency. We’re keeping an open mind at this stage, but I suspect our guest was targeted in revenge for having uncovered the heretic conspiracy on Drechia.’

‘Preposterous,’ a woman of about the same age, in a dun uniform I didn’t recognise – but which I suspected marked her out as someone senior in the local law enforcers, judging by how close she was standing to the local arbitrator – put in. ‘That would imply collusion between heretics and someone in the governor’s own household.’

‘A possibility we must consider,’ Fulcher said evenly, ‘however distasteful we may find it. No one can be above suspicion in matters of this kind.’ He glanced in my direction. ‘Apart from Commissar Cain here, of course.’ His gaze moved on to the man in the Adeptus Arbites uniform, regarding him with a faintly sardonic air. ‘And you, I suppose, Osric. If these rumours I’ve been hearing about you consorting with an inquisitor have any foundation at all, I’m sure he’d have uncovered any heretical tendencies you might have by now.’

The arbitrator’s face remained impassive, and his voice conversational; used to concealing my own feelings, I must confess I was quietly impressed by his delivery, being probably the only person present who fully appreciated the artistry of his performance. ‘You must be aware, your excellency, that were such an improbable circumstance ever to arise, I would be unable to discuss the matter.’

‘Of course.’ Fulcher clearly had enough sense to heed the thinly veiled warning, settling instead for clapping the man in the blue-and-gold uniform on the back, making him the centre of attention instead. ‘Looks like it’s over to you, Defroy. I’m sure Clarys and Osric will be happy to aid your investigation in any way they can.’

‘Right,’ the woman agreed, while the arbitrator merely nodded, being careful not to say anything that could be construed as acquiescence, and with Vekkman breathing down his neck, who could blame him?

‘Well then,’ Fulcher said, sounding about as enthusiastic at the prospect of discussing an eldar invasion of his world as might be expected, which is to say not very, ‘I suppose we ought to be getting started.’ He glanced in my direction, then back at the somewhat battered air car, with a faint frown of puzzlement. ‘Are you alone, commissar? I was given to understand that you have an aide.’

‘That’s perfectly true, your excellency,’ I agreed, in as bland a fashion as I could contrive, ‘who is unfortunately detained with pressing duties back at our command centre. Colonel Kasteen and Major Broklaw also send their apologies.’

‘Of course.’ Whether Fulcher was relieved or disappointed by their absence was hard to tell. ‘I take it you’d appreciate some refreshment?’

‘I would indeed,’ I agreed.

To my unspoken relief, it seemed most of the hangers-on weren’t going to attend the meeting after all, small groups of them breaking off every time we passed one of the richly carpeted side corridors, muttering among themselves as they went. In fact, by the time we’d passed through the doors of the conference room, only myself, the governor and the arbitrator were left, which came as a bit of a surprise; I’d expected Defroy, the commander of the household troops, to be joining us. His people seemed competent enough, if the grav-speeder pilots I’d already met were anything to go by, and would be among the first to respond if the xenos launched an attack against the upper docks. In fact he’d shown every sign of intending to remain with us until we were within a handful of metres of the imposing bronze doors (embossed, like pretty much everything, with the family crest I’d first noticed when I parked the air car on it – perhaps Fulcher was worried about his visitors pilfering stuff), at which point he received a message on his vox-bead. After listening for a moment he gestured to Clarys, and the two of them disappeared down the corridor after a perfunctory and non-committal apology, conferring in an urgent undertone as they went.

I wasn’t too sure about this; clearly something was going on which I wasn’t privy to, a circumstance I was never happy about. Moreover, it would have been useful to get his perspective on the eldar invasion and how the resources he commanded could best be utilised to counter it.

‘This looks comfortable enough,’ I said, with a nod of greeting to the senior planetary defence force officers already seated around the polished stone table, the partial fossils of the occasional aeon-old aquatic invertebrate visible here and there in the reflective surface. Most of my attention, however, was on the display of refreshments laid out at the far end of the room; not for the first time after escaping death by millimetres, I suddenly found I was famished.

‘Let me introduce General Porten,’ Fulcher said, with a wave in the direction of the most braid-bedecked member of the contingent, whose greying moustache would have impressed a Vostroyan with its size and luxuriance, ‘commander of the Ironfound Defence Force.’

‘An honour, commissar.’ Despite the abundance of facial hair, which effectively hid much of his expression, he sounded genuinely impressed, no doubt suitably primed by the exaggerated stories he’d heard about my supposedly heroic exploits. He nodded cordially at me, a positively restrained greeting by the standards of the system we were in, and I found myself warming to him at once. Here, at least, was a man for whom protocol clearly came a distant second to the practical considerations.

‘Likewise,’ I said, helping myself to a cyna bun and a mug of recaff as I spoke. Given the highly confidential nature of what we were about to discuss there were none of the servants I’d normally expect to find hanging about the place, so in the absence of Jurgen I’d just have to shift for myself. ‘Anyone hungry or thirsty while I’m up?’ An offer I fully expected to be refused, of course, given my status, but which I knew would go down well, cementing my undeserved reputation for the consideration of others.

‘Wouldn’t mind another recaff,’ Porten said, rising another notch or two in my estimation, not least because of the audible intake of breath around the table in response to his reply. I poured the requested drink with a friendly smile, and placed it on the slab of stone between us as I took the seat opposite him, keeping my own provisions in front of me. ‘Thank you. Much appreciated.’ He picked up the porcelain cup with surprising delicacy, and strained a mouthful of its contents through his moustache.

‘Everyone here knows Osric, of course,’ Fulcher said, although I doubted that, given the blank expressions of the clutch of senior aides and officers in the seats adjoining the general. Porten evidently did, however, as the arbitrator smiled at him in an affable fashion, and settled into the well-padded chair next to mine. The adjacent seat remained empty, no doubt earmarked for Defroy if his presence was required, or whatever business he’d hurried off on was successfully concluded before the meeting ended. Fulcher seated himself too, at the head of the table, and waved an introduction to a cadaverous fellow whose Navy-styled uniform was almost as lavishly ornamented as Porten’s. ‘Admiral Herren, C in C[111] of our system defences.’

‘What’s left of them,’ the man remarked dryly, presumably before anyone else did. A faintly awkward silence fell, before being broken by Porten, who coughed apologetically.

‘The fighters have lost contact with the eldar,’ he said, apparently in response to a voice in his comm-bead. ‘They were forced to break off by the volume of civilian traffic around the orbital docks.’ Which made sense to me, even though most of the faces around the table seemed to share Porten’s disappointed bafflement. The Vypers were smaller, and far more manoeuvrable than their pursuers; once they got into the main traffic lanes, the relatively cumbersome Lightnings would find them a good deal more difficult to track, not to mention having their lines of fire impeded by innumerable cargo shuttles and the like. ‘They were last confirmed in the vicinity of Skyside Seventeen.’

Herren nodded, apparently listening to something in his own earpiece. ‘I can confirm that,’ he said. ‘They were engaged by the point defences, and shot up a few of the surface structures on their way past.’ He nodded towards the head of the table. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that your estates up there escaped unscathed, however.’

‘Not really the issue,’ Fulcher said. ‘I’m rather more concerned with what was damaged, and how many casualties we took in the process.’

‘Point taken, governor.’ If Herren was abashed at being caught out in quite such a blatant attempt at toadying he hid it well, simply moving on as if the exchange had never happened. ‘Most of the damage appears superficial, which is only to be expected given how quickly the xenos passed the void station. No deaths or injuries reported yet, although that might change – if it does I’ll let you know.’

‘So they’re beyond the atmosphere now,’ I said, more to show that I was paying attention than because I was particularly interested. Eldar going away wasn’t a problem; it was the ones still coming at us that worried me. ‘Anything at all on the long-range augurs?’

‘Nothing we can target reliably,’ Herren said, with a touch of exasperation. ‘They’re moving too fast, and almost out of range in any case.’

‘Have you got anything up there that can intercept them?’ Fulcher asked, which seemed reasonable enough for a civilian unversed in strategic or tactical thinking.

Herren shook his head. ‘We’re deploying what assets we have left to defend the planet,’ he said. ‘None of our boats can accelerate fast enough, and if we tried we’d leave a gap in our picket line. Which may be precisely what they’re hoping to achieve, of course.’

‘I agree,’ I said, more or less accurately. It sounded pretty tenuous, but it wouldn’t be the first time that someone launched a feint attack to try to lure an impetuous defender out of position – in fact I’d employed precisely that stratagem myself on more than one occasion, finding it particularly effective against the orks. The eldar must have realised we were unlikely to fall for it, but offhand I couldn’t see any other reason for such a risky and apparently fruitless endeavour. ‘Unless they were reconnoitring some potential target on the ground. Anything of strategic value along their flight path?’

‘Just the hive itself,’ Porten said, after consulting the data-slate in front of him for a moment. ‘And I hardly think they’d need to get that close to be aware of its existence.’

‘Quite,’ Fulcher said, and glanced in my direction. ‘Any of your people out on the surface around there?’

‘No,’ I told him, with complete confidence. Kasteen and Broklaw had been adamant that if there was any grubbing around in an environment requiring the use of respirators to be done, it could be done by the local defence force, who’d been trained for this sort of thing; at least until an Imperial Guard unit with the appropriate expertise turned up. Our request for reinforcements had been acknowledged, but we still had no idea how long it would take a task force to get here, other than too long, and its constituent elements were a mystery known only to the Munitorum bureaucrats. A company or two of Death Korps would be ideal, given the environment, but if their past record was anything to go by we were just as likely to get Catachan jungle fighters and a ratling marching band.[112] ‘Our primary mission remains to secure Holdvast against eldar incursion, which we can best do from within it.’

‘What about the other hives?’ Osric asked, reasonably enough under the circumstances. ‘Are you just leaving them to fend for themselves?’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ I said, which was true, even though he’d pretty much hit the nail on the head; I’d have been a bit more tactful. ‘We discussed detaching a company or two to reinforce the Ironfound Defence in other hives,’ which was also true, although we’d only done so for a few seconds before coming to the unanimous conclusion that it was a truly terrible idea, ‘but even an entire regiment would be barely adequate to the task. Our assessment is that Holdvast will be the eldar’s primary target – it’s the largest, most populous, and most productive, not to mention the centre of planetary government. If it falls, the world falls.’ Not to mention the main reason for us being here, the webway entrance deep in the bowels of the underhive, through which the xenos were undoubtedly already swarming to gnaw away at the foundations. A secret everyone here was now privy to, despite Amberley’s reservations in that regard, as we could hardly be expected to coordinate defences against an attack none of our allies even knew was coming.

‘We can expect to see some activity in the underhive too,’ Porten said, obligingly bringing the matter up for me. ‘Probably a coordinated attack against the lower levels as the main fleet launches its orbital assault.’

‘That’s our thinking too,’ I agreed. ‘But at the moment we’re completely lacking intel on the enemy strength down there.’

‘Pretty near infinite, I’d say,’ a new voice chimed in from the doorway, and with a carefully suppressed sigh of heartfelt relief I glanced up to see Amberley strolling in, the huge bronze doors whispering closed behind her. She smiled at Fulcher, who was doing a pretty good imitation of a recently landed fish. ‘No need to get up, Septimus.’

‘Milady Vail.’ Though completely taken aback by her sudden appearance, the governor rallied fast. ‘I’m afraid this is a highly confidential meeting.’ A trace of puzzlement appeared on his face. ‘There were guards…’

‘Yes, there were,’ Amberley agreed cheerfully, settling into the vacant seat I’d assumed to be reserved for Defroy. If he turned up now he’d just have to stand, unless one of the defence force staffers did the decent thing, or was ordered to. ‘But they got out of the way when I showed them this.’ She held up her hand, allowing its electoo of the Inquisitorial sigil to flash into visibility. ‘People tend to do that.’ As usual after revealing her real identity she’d dispensed with the dressing up box, reverting to the plain crimson bodyglove and grey tabard she favoured when expecting trouble. Her bolt pistol was visible too, holstered in plain sight on the belt around her waist, along with a number of pouches, the contents of which I didn’t want to speculate too much about.[113]

‘You’re the inquisitor?’ Fulcher turned to Osric, who was looking even more taken aback, and who bit off whatever he was about to say with an audible snap of the jaw. ‘Is she really?’

‘I’m an inquisitor,’ Amberley said, coming to the arbitrator’s rescue before he could reveal Vekkman’s real identity as well, either directly or by a poorly executed attempt at evasion, ‘and that should be enough to be going on with. It was me who discovered the existence of the portal in the first place, and called the Militarum in to take care of it.’ She smiled around the table, in the puckishly disarming fashion that got people (all right, me) to do whatever she wanted, regardless of their own best interests.[114] ‘Ooh, is that a cyna bun?’

‘Allow me,’ I said, rising to fetch her some refreshment and enjoy the general air of consternation without having to work too hard at keeping my face straight. ‘Would you like some recaff too?’

She would, of course, but Fulcher was no fool, and pouring her one without asking would probably start him wondering how I knew so much about her personal tastes.

‘Please. With a sprinkle of cyna.’ She favoured me with a smile as I placed the delicate china cup on the table in front of her with a faintly audible clink of ceramic against stone, which was echoed a heartbeat later as the plate containing her bun followed. ‘Thank you.’

‘When you say pretty near infinite,’ Porten said, with the air of a man determined to get all the bad news out of the way as quickly as possible, ‘what exactly do you mean?’

‘Precisely what it sounds like,’ Amberley said. ‘The webway entrance in the underhive leads to a craftworld, along with uncountable other destinations. Think of a spacecraft the size of this hive, or larger. Then give it almost instant access to whatever resources they want, anywhere in the galaxy.’ From the expressions around the table, and the visible pallor on several of them, it was pretty obvious that this was not a picture anyone was happy with, least of all me. She took a bite out of her bun, and chewed for a moment with every sign of relish. ‘Of course the same thing applies to the portal in the Avernus subsystem as well. They can pop out there pretty much at will too, although given the travel time, I’d say they’re unlikely to bother once they’ve got a beachhead in the lower hive. Quicker and easier for them to get reinforcements in that way.’

‘Once they’ve dug themselves out,’ I said. ‘The briefing mentioned something about that particular cavern being sealed.’ Which, for all I knew, it did. No point making it obvious that she’d already spoken to Kasteen, Broklaw and myself about the matter in person.

Amberley nodded. ‘It was the last time I saw it,’ she agreed, a trifle indistinctly, until she’d washed the remaining bun residue away with a quick mouthful of recaff, ‘but a bit of a rock fall isn’t going to stop an army of eldar for very long. In fact I’d be amazed if they hadn’t dug a fresh tunnel already.’

‘Then why haven’t they attacked us already?’ Fulcher asked, reasonably enough under the circumstances.

‘Because the general’s right,’ I said. ‘They’re waiting to coordinate their attack with the incoming fleet.’ I nodded judiciously, making it obvious that I was considering all the pertinent factors. ‘And because an underhive isn’t exactly an ideal environment for large-scale troop movements. They’re going to have to travel on foot, and in relatively small groups.’ Which at least meant we wouldn’t be facing any heavy ordnance, or those bloody jetbikes. ‘My guess is they’ll try to rendezvous somewhere within close striking distance of the lower levels of the main hive, and attack in force once they’ve built up sufficient concentrations of troops.’

‘I concur,’ Porten said. He glanced down at his data-slate, then across to the governor. ‘If you wouldn’t mind…?’

‘Of course not,’ Fulcher said, and a hololith display flickered into life above the conference table, showing a tactical map not startlingly different to the one I’d already looked at back at our own headquarters with Kasteen and Broklaw. The same checkpoints had been highlighted, with icons indicating the presence of a planetary defence force unit or two at each, although I wasn’t yet sufficiently familiar with the local conventions to be able to tell much about them. For all I could deduce, it could have been anything from a crack squad of Tempestus Scions to a handful of tertiary reservists armed with a carving knife tied to a broom handle.[115]

Porten indicated the display. ‘These are the lowest levels of the hive we keep permanently manned posts on,’ he said, ‘alongside the prefects.[116] But Clarys would be able to fill you in on their resources down there better than I could.’

Osric turned towards me, then back to Amberley, apparently unable to decide which of us most needed to know whatever information he had to impart, before settling for addressing the air roughly equidistant between the two of us, which resulted in the slightly surreal spectacle of one of the most senior Imperial officials on Ironfound apparently conversing earnestly with a potted plant. ‘In her absence, perhaps you’ll allow me.’ Which seemed fair enough, as she reported to him in any case, so he probably had at least a rough idea of what was going on down there. ‘Essentially the prefects are there to regulate traffic flow through the gates, and prevent contraband getting through in either direction.’

And good luck with that, if any of my childhood memories could be relied on, although perhaps they couldn’t; certainly in the hive I used to call home, a steady stream of illicit merchandise flowed across the dividing line both uphive and down. People, too.

‘I remember them,’ Amberley said. ‘They didn’t seem terribly thorough.’

Osric shrugged. ‘They do what they can. But they’re overworked and under-resourced.’

‘And interfering too much with the unofficial economy isn’t going to work out too well for anyone,’ I added, just to show I understood how things were. If the underhivers could get what they wanted by tacitly tolerated illicit means, everyone made a bit of money, and the governor wouldn’t have to deal with any insurrections. Come to that, goods and services coming up from below would improve the official tithing figures as well, leaving that bit more to be skimmed by Fulcher and his cronies. (I was pretty sure he would have some, as in my experience everyone in a position of power has a few. How else are they going to feel important?)

I turned back to Porten. ‘You said permanently manned,’ I said. ‘Do you ever go lower?’

The general nodded, his extravagant moustache oscillating wildly.

‘We send a squad or two down a few levels every couple of days to do a quick sweep. Nothing major, just a general reminder for the scofflaws downgate that we’re not that far away, so they’d better mind their manners.’

‘Good,’ I said. If the eldar really were on the move, one of the defence force patrols would be the first to encounter them, giving us some warning of the xenos’ approach. ‘Any of them come across unusual activity in the sub levels?’

Porten shook his head. ‘Not really. Although there seem to be more scavvies on the move than usual, coming up from the sump.’

‘Saying what?’ I asked, and Porten shook his head again.

‘Nothing. Not to our troopers, anyway.’ Which was hardly surprising, since the average underhiver’s response to seeing a large group of people carrying guns is to move rapidly in the general direction of away. Unless they’ve got more of both, in which case they’ll try to take the weapons for themselves, which generally doesn’t end well for anyone involved. All of which goes double for any incursion by the up-hive authorities.

I turned back to Osric. ‘Do you have any informants down there reporting back to your office?’

‘Not as such,’ he replied, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Clarys has a network, of course, and she passes on anything she thinks might be of interest to the enforcers, but that’s not an awful lot, to be honest. Most of what she gathers is of purely local interest.’[117]

‘So you haven’t heard anything which might indicate whether or not the eldar are on the move yet either,’ I said, and Osric shook his head, in a faintly sullen manner.

‘I have a few local informants of my own,’ Amberley said, to everyone’s evident surprise except mine. ‘They’re based in the spire, but they have dealings with the underhive on a regular basis, so I’m inclined to give their reports a reasonable amount of credence. According to them, a lot more people than usual are moving upwards from the lowest levels, though no one’s sure why. Some of them are talking about ghosts and daemons in the sump, or hivesteaders going missing. No one’s heard anything from Ebon Flow in over a week, and no one’s come back from there after going to take a look either.’

‘I take it that’s a settlement close to where you discovered the portal,’ I said, and Amberley nodded.

‘The closest,’ she said. ‘They were armed, and well organised by underhive standards, perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. If they’ve gone quiet, it doesn’t look good.’

‘No,’ I agreed, ‘it doesn’t.’ I was beginning to get a distinct sinking feeling about this. ‘I suppose we’ll have to send someone down there to recon.’ And I was pretty sure I knew who was going to get the job. After all, Amberley was well aware of my affinity for places like that. ‘And the sooner the better.’

Sure enough, she was smiling at me. ‘My thoughts exactly,’ she agreed.

Fourteen

It wasn’t quite as cut and dried as all that, of course; I still had to oversee the implementation of a coherent defensive strategy, which basically boiled down to putting as many of the Ironfound Defence Force troopers as possible around the gates leading to the underhive, as they would be the primary choke points on an eldar advance into the main part of the complex. It would also give us a reasonable number of troops in reserve, which we could use to blockade the narrower tunnels lower down, and, with any luck, prevent the pointy-ears from even getting as far as the gates – if we could locate them quickly enough.

The approaching fleet was another matter entirely, and the closer it got to Ironfound, the more attractive a recon expedition into the bowels of the underhive began to look. At least it was an environment I knew and could use to my advantage; I was pretty sure if push came to shove I’d be able to evade the eldar a lot more easily down there than they’d be able to evade me. At which point a disquieting little voice at the back of my head reminded me that I’d thought the same thing on Drechia, and that hadn’t exactly ended well.

‘I think we’re done, then,’ Fulcher said at long last, and I rose with the others, wondering for the first time since I got here how I was going to get back. Fulcher might offer me the use of another air car, I supposed, but under the circumstances I wasn’t that keen on trusting my safety to another member of his household. I could have summoned Jurgen, of course, but with so much vertical distance to travel it would take him a good couple of hours to get here, even at the pace he usually drove. But before I could reach a decision the governor stopped talking for a moment, listening to something in his vox-bead, then turned back to me. ‘Commissar, would you mind staying a few more minutes? Defroy has some information you might find of interest.’

‘By all means,’ I said, resuming my seat, and being pleasantly surprised to find Amberley settling into the one next to me which had lately been vacated by the arbitrator. Fulcher looked at her in a faintly quizzical manner, but, probably wisely,[118] let it go.

‘I’d like a word with you as well,’ Amberley said, while everyone else filed out, trying not to look as though they were hoping for some clue as to what she might want with me. ‘I’ll fly you back, and we can talk on the way.’

‘Fine with me,’ I agreed, as the last of the wannabe eavesdroppers left the room with curious backward glances.

‘Commissar.’ Defroy pushed his way through the final stragglers, and closed the door on them with the kind of firm politeness Jurgen generally used to keep people I couldn’t be bothered to deal with[119] out of my office. ‘We’ve found something which may be significant.’ He laid a data-slate on the table in front of me. ‘This was discovered by a spirejack on the outer wall, about eight hundred metres below the mansion. Do you recognise him at all?’

‘Not really,’ I said, keeping my voice conversational with some difficulty. Throne alone knows I’ve seen more than my share of violent death over the decades, even considering my vocation, but this was something out of the ordinary even by those standards. ‘What with him not having a face and everything.’ The corpse in question was tangled in a vox-array, which probably hadn’t been made any more effective by its addition, the impact having been violent enough to shatter bone, burst flesh, and put a serious crimp in several of the antennae.

‘Pistol bolt to the head,’ Amberley commented, glancing over my shoulder with professional detachment, no doubt having produced a similar effect herself on more than one occasion. Defroy’s eyebrows rose as recognition dawned, and his mouth opened, clearly about to ask her what she was doing here. Amberley forestalled him, raising a hand in greeting and displaying her electoo as the palm opened. ‘Don’t mind me, I’m just here to help. Or make your life very uncomfortable if you get in my way.’

Defroy turned to Fulcher. ‘She’s the inquisitor we’ve been hearing rumours about?’ he asked, in much the same tone of incredulity that the governor had used.

‘Apparently so.’ Fulcher shrugged. ‘Just go with it.’

‘The uniform’s the same as the man who tried to kill me,’ I said, dragging the conversation back to the matter in hand. ‘So I take it that’s the real chauffeur?’

‘We believe so,’ Defroy said. ‘Clarys is getting her medicae to do a genetic match, but it’s going to take a while to recover the body and make certain. Till then, our best guess is that the assassin waylaid him, switched places and dumped the body, either from the air car or directly out of the airlock before leaving. It was pure chance that the wind shear brought it back close enough to the spire to become entangled.’

‘Which means that an armed assassin was able to wander around the governor’s mansion unchallenged,’ I said. ‘Hardly an encouraging prospect.’

Fulcher smiled thinly. ‘Try looking at it from this seat,’ he said.

‘Or mine,’ Defroy added. ‘We’re investigating how that might be possible, but with thousands of servants on the staff, it’ll take some time before we can tell if anyone’s missing. And if nobody is, of course, that raises a whole lot of other questions.’

‘Then we’ll leave that in your capable hands,’ Amberley said, rising. ‘Let us know how you get on.’ She glanced at me. ‘Coming?’

‘By all means,’ I said.

To my surprise, and, I must confess, a degree of relief, we didn’t take to the air again from the hangar at which I’d arrived. Instead, Amberley led me through a tangle of richly carpeted and over-ornamented corridors to the cavernous entrance hall I remembered from gatecrashing the governor’s soiree. Liveried flunkies bowed us out through the thick steel door, with its inevitable display of the Fulcher crest, as though we were simply regular visitors,[120] and I found myself in an armourcrys biome, the transparent walls and ceiling of which afforded a dazzling view of the curvature of the planet so far below – or, at least, of the upper layer of the noxious clouds which hid the surface. I vaguely remembered having arrived here for the welcoming party, but at the time the crowds and the constantly moving vehicles had made it hard to appreciate the vista. Now it was empty, apart from a couple of distant servitors raking the gravel and clipping the topiary, and I was able to appreciate the scale and magnificence of the gardens surrounding the mansion. Rolling lawns led the eye to a small lake, which no doubt doubled as an ornamental reservoir in case of prolonged siege, artfully set around with formal beds, hedging and clumps of trees to break up the open space, making it feel both more intimate and larger than it actually was. From a tactical point of view, I noted cynically, it would also funnel a massed assault into clearly defined fire lanes.

The only vehicle parked outside the house was Amberley’s limousine, which I recognised at once, hovering a few centimetres above the drive, its gravitic repulsors humming gently. The windows were fully polarised, dark reflective pools in which our doppelgangers imitated our every move. After a moment the door hummed open, and I followed Amberley into the obscured interior, dropping into the seat beside her before I realised the air car already held another passenger.

‘Commissar. We meet again,’ Vekkman said, as though contemplating an imminent attack of indigestion.

Amberley leaned towards Pelton, who was, as usual, occupying the driver’s seat, the chauffeur’s cap perched on top of his head doing absolutely nothing to make him look more like a household servant than concentrated harm looking for someone to happen to. ‘The Imperial Guard post, Flicker, if you wouldn’t mind. And take your time. We’ve things to discuss.’

‘I’ll take the scenic route, then,’ he said, the edge of sarcasm in his voice not so much concealed as lurking in ambush. He fed power to the gravitics, and the limousine rose smoothly into the air, in stark contrast to the jolting progress I’d experienced in the governor’s air car. Which, come to think of it, made a lot more sense now it was obvious my driver on that occasion’s primary skill set had little to do with the piloting of aerial vehicles.

‘How’s your investigation going?’ I asked, hoping for a little good news at least.

‘Slowly,’ Vekkman replied, as though that were somehow my fault. ‘It would be far easier to trace connections back from Drechia, where the cult’s been dragged into the open, than try to uncover a potential cell from this end.’

‘Then you’ll need to ask the eldar to get out of your way,’ Amberley said, as Pelton guided the limousine through the cavernous airlock chamber. The great bronze doors of the inner entry way ground closed behind us, sealing with an echoing clang! which resonated through the armoured bodywork of the air car, and we glided to a halt in front of the outer one, which – inevitably – was decorated with the Fulcher family crest, each constituent of which was larger than the vehicle we rode in. ‘Good luck with that.’

‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ I said, ‘what exactly are you doing here?’ Amberley had made no secret of her desire to keep him at arm’s length, so finding him waiting in her car had come as a real surprise.

‘I wanted a word with you about the attempt on your life,’ Vekkman said. ‘Could the heretics be responsible?’

‘The head of the household troops thinks they were,’ I said. ‘Though I’m not sure why they’d bother, to be honest.’

‘Neither am I,’ Vekkman agreed. ‘They seem to have gone to a great deal of trouble and expense, infiltrating the governor’s household, and fitting out a couple of air cars with heavy weaponry. That implies access to a lot of resources, which would be more purposefully employed advancing their agenda, rather than frittered away seeking revenge.’

The outer door began to grind open, revealing the purple sky behind it, clotted with aerial traffic. There seemed to be a little more of it than I remembered, including an increase in the number of shuttles and other spaceworthy craft, and after a moment I realised that they’d probably come from the orbital void stations, seeking refuge in the illusory safety of the hive. I doubted that the eldar would resort to a sustained bombardment from space, as destroying the hive utterly would bury the webway portal under trillions of tonnes of rubble,[121] which would pretty much put an end to any hope they might have of swarming through it to retake the planet they’d abandoned millennia before.

‘Quite.’ Amberley nodded, in reluctant agreement. ‘If they could sneak an assassin into the mansion, why not just take out Fulcher while they had the chance, and have done with it? Quick coup d’état, job’s over, heretics in charge. Probably through some well-meaning idiot distantly related to him.’

‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘They’re all barmy anyway.’

‘No,’ Vekkman said emphatically. ‘They are not. Irrational, deluded, and extremely dangerous, yes, but there’s always some purpose behind their actions which makes perfect sense to them.’

‘Tangling with the eldar doesn’t seem to make much sense to me,’ I said, and Amberley nodded, glancing down at the seething cloud of filth below us. Pelton was descending slowly, sticking to the traffic lanes, and I found myself looking around at the swarm of other flyers surrounding us, searching for more like the ones which had attacked me during my ascent. I knew how unlikely that was, of course, but I simply couldn’t help it; my innate paranoia had kept me alive often enough for me to indulge it now and again.

‘Which is what puzzles me,’ she said. ‘They were there, in just the right place and at just the right time to save your life. Then, instead of taking a pot-shot at you themselves, they broke off and fled.’

‘Which is not, I take it, typical behaviour for the eldar?’ Vekkman asked.

Amberley shook her head. ‘In so far as that phrase has any meaning at all, no, not really.’

‘You said the farseer you spoke to seemed to think I was going to do something significant,’ I said. ‘Maybe I just haven’t done it yet.’

‘That’s possible,’ Amberley replied, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Though I can’t imagine what it could be for them to go to all that trouble to save you from a couple of heretics.’

‘All that trouble?’ I echoed, a very uncomfortable suspicion beginning to coalesce. But we hadn’t been able to find any other plausible targets for the Vypers, and of all the fast-moving aerial unpleasantness in the eldar arsenal there was nothing better suited to shooting down the heretic air cars. ‘You think the only reason they risked running our blockade in the first place was to save my neck?’

‘I said it was possible,’ Amberley said, ‘not likely. For one thing, I can’t think of anything you might do that would make them take a chance like that.’

‘Me neither,’ I lied. I could think of an excellent one, but it wasn’t an idea I wanted to share. What if I was going to make some catastrophic strategic or tactical blunder which would ensure the success of their invasion? That would surely be worth the eldar taking a few risks to bring about. ‘Just how reliable is this Sambhatain’s prediction likely to be, anyway?’

Amberley shrugged, with the usual aesthetically pleasing results. ‘I couldn’t say,’ she replied, which was hardly the most reassuring thing I could have heard. ‘Farseers’ abilities aren’t quite the same as a human psyker with precognitive abilities. Rakel, for instance, seems to pick up sense impressions, which are generally hard to convey verbally.’ Which, as understatements go, ranked somewhere around asserting that orks have a tendency to testiness. ‘Farseers, on the other hand, seem to perceive potential timelines directly, like the threads of a tapestry, and nudge events towards following the one they see as having the most beneficial outcome.’

‘Then perhaps we should just take it for granted that they’re going to win, and concentrate on the real threat,’ Vekkman said. ‘We need to root out whatever taint of Chaos exists here while the planet is still in Imperial hands, and eradicate it while we have the chance.’

‘Excuse me?’ Amberley turned a frosty glare on her fellow inquisitor. ‘I’m not handing over an entire world to a bunch of pointy-eared pirates to go chasing a handful of headcases who haven’t done any real damage yet, and probably never will.’

‘You’re missing the point,’ Vekkman said, reining in his temper with a visible effort. ‘All your eldar can do is kill the bodies of the faithful, and send their souls to the Emperor’s protection. If the heretics summon another daemon, a truly puissant one this time, it will devour those souls, damning billions of them to perpetual torment, and that cannot and will not be allowed to happen. Decree Exterminatus is an option for a reason.’

‘No one’s decreeing Exterminatus against Ironfound!’ Amberley expostulated. ‘Its strategic and economic value is far too great.’

‘That would be the option of last resort, of course,’ Vekkman said. ‘But if anything were to justify it, a daemonic incursion would. Compared to that, the eldar are a minor irritation.’

‘A minor irritation with an invasion fleet about to make orbit, and every chance there’s an army tunnelling their way up to the main hab zone even as we speak,’ I said. I turned to Amberley. ‘Though if Sambhatain’s really nudging events their way, it does sound as though we’re frakked.’

‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ Amberley said. ‘A farseer can influence the general direction of things, like send a squad of Guardians to reinforce a defensive line that’s about to give way, but they wouldn’t be able to guarantee that they’ll win once they get there.’

I nodded, taking what solace I could from that. ‘So his presence makes it more likely that the eldar will take the planet, but we can still hold them off?’

She nodded again. ‘In essence, yes. It just makes the job about ten times harder.’

‘Lovely,’ I said, trying to appear as though I was making light of the matter, but uncomfortably aware of how sour I was sounding in spite of myself. ‘Because it’s all looked so easy up until now.’

Understandably, that thought remained with me long after I returned to the command centre, which was infested by far fewer cogboys than the last time I’d seen it, although just as many troopers seemed to be bustling about, and brought Kasteen and Broklaw up to speed. They listened soberly to my account of the meeting, including Amberley’s part in it, which, if it came as a surprise, showed on neither of their faces.[122] Of our subsequent conversation with Vekkman, I of course said nothing.

‘I don’t like it,’ Kasteen said, once I’d finished my summary of the military aspects of the discussion. ‘That leaves us reliant on the Ironfound Defence for a heads up when the pointy-ears make their move in the underhive, and we’ll be playing catch-up after that. I’d rather take the fight to the enemy while we still can.’

‘Me too,’ Broklaw agreed. ‘If we send some recon units in, and find some indication of the line of their advance, we can deploy somewhere we can meet it and hold them off. One thing you can say for the underhive, it’s not exactly short of choke points.’ He turned to me. ‘Ciaphas, this is your area of expertise. What do you think?’

‘I think it’s worth a try,’ I said, reflecting that in a labyrinth as large and complex as the average underhive an entire army stood an excellent chance of strolling past our scouts without even being noticed. Which meant there was an even better chance of them failing to notice me. ‘But they’d need to go in on foot. The Chimeras would run out of manoeuvring room within a score of levels below the gates, and the Sentinels not long after that.’ Which was a pity, as our Sentinel squadron was our primary asset when it came to scouting, fast enough to outflank an enemy, and agile enough to move quickly even in close terrain. But the tunnels of the underhive would be too restrictive even for them.

‘On foot it is, then,’ Kasteen said. ‘What about the planetary defence force?’

‘What about them?’ Broklaw asked, his tone dismissive.

‘They’re patrolling down there anyway, and they know the terrain.’ She glanced in my direction. ‘Isn’t that what their general said?’

‘The upper levels of the underhive, at least,’ I agreed.

‘Good. Then we can leave that layer of defence to them.’ She nodded decisively. ‘Like we did with their counterparts on Drechia. If we get them to establish a proper picket line downgate, in territory they know, we’ll be able to handle recon in the lower levels sure we won’t run into any unpleasant surprises on the way back up.’ Seeing my mouth open to make the obvious rejoinder, she shrugged. ‘As sure as we can be, anyway.’ Which was not that sure at all, really, given the number of branching passageways an infiltrating force might still be able to exploit. Not to mention the fact that Amberley seemed pretty sure the eldar would be well up to the task of carving out new ones.

‘I’ll talk to General Porten,’ I said. ‘He seems competent enough,’ which was true, ‘and he’s definitely got the manpower.’

‘While you’re at it,’ Broklaw suggested, ‘why not ask if he can extend the patrols deeper as well? If they’re fortifying in depth below the gates, that would give them a natural forward base or two to send out recon sweeps of their own from. Then you can crack straight on with your eldar hunt in the lower levels.’ As I’d expected, it seemed everyone was expecting me to tag along with one of the recon squads we were going to send out – which, given how at home I was in environments like that, was hardly surprising.

‘I’ll be sure to mention it,’ I promised; and in the event, Porten obliged, which was just as well as things turned out. I wasn’t able to attend to the matter straight away, however, as at that point we were approached by a harassed-looking augur operator.

‘Ma’am, sirs,’ she said, sketching a hasty salute, the words tumbling over themselves with the urgency of her report. ‘We need you in the operations centre right away. The orbital batteries are engaging the eldar fleet in orbit.’

Editorial Note:

A typical lacuna now occurs in Cain’s account of events, since, as usual, he deems nothing which didn’t affect him personally worthy of record. The following extracts may, however, prove useful in placing his habitually self-centred narrative in a wider context.

From The Eldar: a History of Their Presence in the Ultima Segmentum, and Some Musings Upon Possible Means of Their Eradication, by Baltazar Thromp, 997 M41

Undeterred by the mauling they’d taken at the hands of the system defence force, the eldar fleet continued its relentless advance against Ironfound, showing no sign of dismay at the formidable defences arrayed against them. But the defenders were equally resolute, no doubt due, at least in part, to the presence of the legendary Commissar Cain, who, in one of the earliest recorded skirmishes of the siege, single-handedly repulsed an incursion by an eldar scouting party. Having failed to find any sign of weakness, the xenos interlopers fell back on sheer brute force, unleashing a storm of weapons fire against the ships deployed to meet them.

As before, they paid a heavy toll, the dauntless crews of the defending Imperial ships weathering barrage after barrage in the dogged defence of the home world they held so dear; but ultimately the sheer weight of numbers began to tell, the guns of ship after ship and orbital defence posts alike beginning to fall silent under the sustained pounding of the fiends from the void.

Ere long, the gaps in the defensive line which the heroes of Ironfound fought so desperately to keep closed began to gape wider, allowing the first invaders to break through and begin landing troops on the sacred soil of that beleaguered world.

Transcript of vid and voxcast address by Governor Fulcher.

Many of you will have heard the rumours of a small, limited incursion into our system by eldar pirates, chiefly in the Halo Autonomous Zone, which continues to repel them with great success. Perhaps because of this, a few have now ventured to Ironfound, where no doubt they anticipate easier pickings.

Needless to say, this is a hope in which they are to be profoundly disappointed. The Ironfound Defence Force has the matter well in hand, supported, I’m pleased to say, by an Imperial Guard regiment which happened to be passing through the system on its way to its next deployment: a regiment led by none other than Commissar Cain, whose valour and dedication to duty are renowned throughout the sector, if not the entire segmentum. It may even be true to say that his fame extends across the Imperium itself.[123]

At the moment the enemy are concentrating their efforts, entirely fruitlessly, against Holdvast, which continues to shrug off their attacks. This means, of course, that the vast majority of you are in no danger at all, although your local defence force will be on a heightened state of readiness as a precaution.

If you are resident in Holdvast you should notice no disruption to your regular routine either, although I would ask you to remain vigilant for anything out of the ordinary, and report it to your shift supervisor, hab zone superintendent, or directly to the Prefecture or planetary defence force watch house closest to your location.

You may also notice the occasional troop movement, and I would ask you to assist our heroic defenders in such cases by ensuring that they can pass by unimpeded.

Let me conclude by assuring you all that this matter will be speedily resolved, and the pointy-ears sent packing in no uncertain terms. The Emperor Himself stands with us, and against Him nothing can prevail.

Fifteen

To his credit, Porten lost no time in deploying the troops we’d asked for to the higher downgate levels, creating a comfortably deep buffer zone which left the 597th free to act as a mobile reserve to counter the periodic assaults of the eldar deploying from orbit. Kasteen stuck to her original decision not to assign any of our units to the outer surface, where the toxic air and poor visibility would have left us at a distinct disadvantage, but the xenos seemed relatively uninterested in attempting to land large numbers of troops at this early stage of the campaign in any case, preferring instead to contest the skies with the steadily dwindling number of local aircraft capable of intercepting them and make the kind of hit-and-run strikes we’d become so familiar with on Drechia. The prime targets for these were, of course, the defensive batteries which would have taken a severe toll of any attempt to invade en masse.

‘They’re trying to soften us up before landing the transports,’ I explained to Amberley as we made our way through the echoing bustle of one of the lowest of the docking ports. That was the most obvious interpretation of their strategy, anyway. ‘Once they’ve neutralised the defences they’ll start bringing the troops down, and mount a full-scale assault with their heavy stuff.’ And Throne alone knew what that would mean. Titans, probably, given the size of their target, which meant the sooner I was down in the underhive with nothing more threatening to worry about than eldar on foot the better I’d like it. Which was why I’d elected to meet Amberley and her people here instead of in the command centre, now a couple of hundred levels above our heads.

‘How long’s that likely to take?’ Amberley asked, raising her voice a little over the growling of vehicle engines, the unrelenting clamour of the adjoining foundries and the voices all around bellowing and acknowledging instructions.

I shrugged. ‘That depends on how determined they are, and the losses they’re willing to risk,’ I said. ‘But no more than a week, I’d say. After that, it’ll be raining eldar.’

I glanced around, belatedly wondering if we’d been overheard, but fortunately I hadn’t been; the ambient noise was too great for that. I resolved to be a little more guarded in future nevertheless. The civilians around us seemed jittery enough as it was, and who could blame them?

‘Where’s your transport?’ Amberley asked, and I gestured to the sturdy Chimera parked in one of the loading bays.

‘Over there,’ I said. ‘Where’s yours?’

‘Flicker’s parking it,’ Amberley said, glancing around as if expecting to see the air car she’d arrived in still floating somewhere above our heads. ‘There’s an abandoned access tunnel nearby, where no one’ll disturb it.’

‘Pelton’s coming too?’ I asked, a trifle disconcerted. I’d been under the impression that Amberley would be the only one tagging along on our scouting trip; with her chief bodyguard there too, not to mention the squad of Valhallans Jurgen and I had brought with us, the Chimera was going to be uncomfortably crowded.

Amberley nodded. ‘Plus Mott and Zemelda. This is an Inquisition matter. You and Jurgen are just here as Militarum observers, officially anyway.’

Which put rather a disquieting perspective on things. I’d been counting on a squad of warm bodies to hide behind if things went ploin-shaped.

Before I could muster a reply, however, the floor beneath my boot soles shuddered, my ears rang, and a blast wave all but knocked me from my feet. Amberley and I braced ourselves against a tsunami of panicking civilians, and we both drew our sidearms instinctively.

‘You! What’s going on?’ I demanded, grabbing a random panicker as he surged past.

‘The lock’s breached!’ The fellow indicated a wall of noxious fog in the middle distance, billowing into the huge chamber. ‘The xenos are coming!’

He twisted free of my hand and fled, joining his bleating brethren in a concentrated rush for the exit tunnels.

‘And the Guard are already here,’ I tried to reassure any of his compatriots in a fit state to listen, but that seemed to be precious few of them. I tapped the comm-bead in my ear. ‘Incoming. Sounds like jetbikes.’ I turned back to face the slowly encroaching fog bank.

‘On our way, commissar,’ the welcome voice of Lieutenant Grifen responded, ‘ETA three minutes. Can you hold that long?’

‘Looks like we’ll have to,’ I said, as the squad of troopers with me disembarked, levelling their lasguns, and the Chimera’s gunner rotated the turret.

‘How about you?’ Amberley voxed her entourage.

‘Five minutes at least.’ Pelton sounded faintly breathless. ‘We’re on foot.’

‘They’re not,’ Amberley said, and opened fire with her bolt pistol. A trio of green-and-purple jetbikes burst from the fog bank, looping around the ceiling, firing as they came. Everyone else still in the area reacted in the usual manner of civilians suddenly finding themselves in mortal danger, screaming and milling around for a moment before cowering in whatever bolt-holes they could find, where they began swearing, weeping, or whining to the Emperor for protection depending on their temperament.

The troopers with me reacted rather more positively, opening fire with their lasguns and the Chimera’s heavy bolter, with the usual lack of effect given the speed and agility of their targets.

‘Look out!’ I yelled, as the lead jetbike turned lazily and began a strafing run across the width of the cargo bay. The troopers needed no urging, having seen enough of their comrades chewed to pieces by the fast-moving flyers’ heavy shuriken cannon on Drechia, and hunkered down, returning fire doggedly from behind whatever cover came to hand. I lost no time in seeking refuge behind a handy servitor, which went on stacking crates with single-minded diligence until a hail of the lethal spinning discs severed a power line and a couple of major muscle groups, whereupon it began to twitch uselessly, leaking blood and lubricants all over my greatcoat. Amberley, however, was not so lucky, being caught in the open while the razor-edged projectiles lacerated the air around her.

Before I could react she vanished abruptly, with a crack of imploding air, and I breathed a faint sigh of relief, recognising the activation of her displacer field.

‘Frakking warp, I hate that!’ a voice said behind me, and a vengeful flurry of pistol bolts emerged from a waste disposal area which smelled almost as unpleasant as it looked.

The lead jetbike touched down, its occupant vaulting lithely from the saddle and sprinting in my direction. I sent a couple of laspistol bolts towards it, but the eldar leapt gracefully aside, progressing in a series of leaps and bounds which kept throwing my aim off. Before I knew it the creature was within striking distance, lashing out at me with its chainsword.

Rolling aside I drew my own, blocking frantically, and the blades clashed, throwing out sparks as two sets of whirling teeth met; then, to my surprise, the eldar drew away, vaulting lithely over the still twitching servitor, and out of reach of my weapon.

‘Second wave incoming, sir!’ Jurgen warned, his voice in my ear attenuated by the vox-bead, an instant before a blinding flash confirmed that Yanbel’s reconsecration of his precious melta had been successfully carried out. Blinking my eyes clear, I found a second trio of the whining jetbikes now whirling above my head. One was trailing smoke, I was pleased to see, but whether that was the result of my aide’s intervention or the Chimera’s heavy bolter I couldn’t have said. Two more of the eldar flyers were grounding now, their riders disembarking to follow the first, and aware that I was right in their path I lost no time in scrambling aside, seeking the cover of a stack of waste drums close to where Amberley had apparently ended up.

‘What in the warp are they doing?’ I asked, more rhetorically than because I expected an answer. The three eldar were searching through the pile of crates the servitor had been sorting, while their circling brethren kept up a withering suppressive fire, apparently unconcerned by the las-bolts the troopers of the 597th persisted in sending their way every time an opportunity presented itself to pop up and shoot.

‘Stealing stuff. They’re pirates, remember?’ Amberley said, a faint air of testiness colouring her voice. She scrambled into my refuge, the front of her jacket stained with something I neither wanted to look at or smell too closely.

‘Seems like they got what they came for,’ I said, sending a couple of laspistol bolts in their general direction. It was true; picking up a crate each they sprinted for their downed flyers, attached them in some fashion I failed to apprehend, and leapt into their saddles.

‘Much good it’ll do them,’ Grifen added, as the roar of powerful engines heralded the arrival of our reinforcements. The Chimeras opened up enthusiastically with their heavy bolters, while the troopers they contained disembarked on the double, adding a blizzard of lasgun fire to the mix. Two of the jetbikes sideslipped, pockmarks appearing on their fairings, but – to the intense disappointment of everyone – failed to crash or explode.[124]

Then they were gone, leaving everyone to catch their breath and wonder what in the name of the Throne had just happened.

‘Five minutes.’ Amberley holstered her bolt pistol, and glared at the mess on her jacket. ‘As soon as I’ve cleaned this up, we’re leaving.’

Which we did. Given that being in a confined space with Jurgen – not to mention Amberley’s jacket – brought its own special quality to proceedings, I took the opportunity to station myself in the upper turret of the Chimera we’d requisitioned. Up there I’d be assured a continued supply of air as fresh as it ever got in the depths of a hive, and a reasonable view of whatever was trying to kill us if the enemy contrived to take us by surprise.

From this elevated vantage point I got a good view of Pelton, Zemelda and Mott approaching, all carrying backpacks, and all dressed in plain utility garments with stout boots and visible sidearms. Pelton’s bolt pistol was holstered at his waist, while Zemelda had transferred her laspistol from its usual point of concealment in the small of her back to a holster on her thigh – presumably because her rucksack would have made it almost impossible to draw quickly if she’d left it where it was. To my faint surprise Mott had a laspistol too, in a visible shoulder rig. If nothing else that impressed upon me just how much trouble Amberley was expecting to find down there. As far as I knew, the savant seldom went armed, and when he did he preferred something a great deal more discreet.

I greeted him with a nod, as of all the members of Amberley’s warband he was the one I socialised with the most (apart from Amberley herself, of course). If I was careful not to trigger a cascade of information from his augmented cerebellum he was a fascinating conversationalist, with a rich fund of anecdotes about his decades of service to the Inquisition, and his ability to almost instantly calculate complex variables had come in extremely handy on visits to a number of gaming establishments over the years.[125] ‘Not like you to be tooled up,’ I said.

Mott nodded. ‘Only on approximately eighteen point three seven five per cent of assignments in the field,’ he agreed, ‘although since the probability of hostile encounters in the underhive is–’

‘Damn near certain,’ I agreed hastily, before he could start breaking them down by category, ‘especially with the eldar doing whatever it is they’re up to down there as well.’

‘Quite,’ Amberley said, clambering aboard and beginning a conversation with my kneecaps, which were about on a level with her face. I leaned back a little against the rim of the cupola, affording me a better view of her upturned face in the passenger compartment below. ‘So the sooner we get on with it the better.’

‘Not taking the power armour?’ I asked. The extra firepower it supported would have come in extremely handy, there being no such thing as overkill on a mission like this, and the thick ceramite plating would have been equally reassuring to have standing between me and an indeterminate number of homicidal eldar.

Amberley shook her head. ‘Yanbel’s still tinkering with it. Says it needs a couple of parts replaced, and the purity seals resanctified.’

‘Well, he should know,’ I conceded. I waited until she’d seated herself next to her acolytes, who’d all opted for the bench on the opposite side of the vehicle from Jurgen, and voxed the driver. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

‘Very good, commissar.’ I didn’t recognise the voice in my comm-bead, which probably meant that she was either one of the most recent batch of recruits from Valhalla, or had simply avoided any infractions of the regulations serious enough to have been brought to my attention. I hoped the latter, as where we were going I’d feel a lot more comfortable with the eyes of experience on our surroundings.

No point in worrying about that now, though; with a growl, a jerk and an eructation of promethium fumes we were off in the direction of the underhive.

The first couple of hours seemed uneventful enough, weaving our way down through the manufactory levels on ramps and roadways crowded with lorries and the omnibuses which transported the workers to and from their shifts. Sometimes the carriageway bore through tunnels, in which the fires of foundries roared away down side passages, or crossed chasms on stout bridges, the edges of uncountable lower levels lying open and exposed beneath us, but for the most part it followed the usual deep hive practice of simply running across the roofs of the layer below. Everything else on the road gave way to us with gratifying speed, and it wasn’t long before we were past the main industrial zone and heading deeper. Now our way took us through solid rock on occasion, before emerging again into caverns stacked with the same interlocking multiple levels of habitation we’d grown used to in the higher levels of the hive.

This deep, the hivescape began to change, the manufactoria becoming smaller and more specialised, with greater reliance on manpower than mechanisation. Several times I saw people raising showers of sparks from glowing metal with hammers, or filing the flash away from castings still hot enough to require gloves to hold. There were more hab units interspersed with them as well now, some solid, some bowing with the weight of antiquity, and some hastily constructed with whatever could be scavenged from their surroundings. There were signs of individual enterprise too, with vendors hawking a variety of wares from improvised stalls, barrows, or trays around their necks. What most of them were selling I couldn’t have said, as we were past them so quickly, although many appeared to be offering foodstuffs even Jurgen might have thought twice about eating.[126] We passed through more checkpoints too, manned for the most part by the Ironfound Defence, although some seemed to be under the jurisdiction of the local law enforcers.

This far downhive, our Chimera was evidently something of a novelty[127] judging by the number of people who broke off whatever they were doing to stare after us, with expressions ranging from apprehension to barely suppressed panic.

‘Almost there, sir.’ The driver, who had been commendably short of conversation on the way down, maintaining vox silence apart from an occasional tactical update from the command centre,[128] began to slow, and I glanced ahead, seeing the gates to the underhive ahead of me for the first time.

I wasn’t quite sure what I’d expected them to look like, but the sheer solidity of the portals took me by surprise. There were three of them, each broad and high enough to have admitted a Baneblade with room to spare, opening away from us towards the downward-sloping tunnels. All three were flanked by emplaced weapons, tripod-mounted lascannons and heavy bolters for the most part, manned by defence force troopers, who kept a wary and suspicious eye on the huge doors, and on the steady procession of vehicles and pedestrians passing through them in each direction. At the moment two of the gates were admitting traffic from the underhive into the main complex, while the third was dealing with travel in the other direction.

‘Interesting,’ Amberley said, after a quick glance through the firing ports,[129] when I mentioned the fact. ‘When we passed through here before, the traffic in each direction was about equal.’

‘And considerably lower in volume,’ Mott added. ‘I would estimate a forty-seven per cent increase in the number of people travelling uphive since that occasion. The central gateway was not in use then.’

‘Hardly surprising, if those rumours your informants were talking about are still spreading,’ I said, keeping my tone as casual as I could. If that many people were on the move, something really bad must be going on down in the lower depths. Hivesteaders are tenacious by nature, and won’t abandon their hard-won claims unless their lives are in imminent danger – and sometimes not even then. If they were being displaced in significant numbers, the eldar were almost certainly on the move.

At which point I found myself gazing round at the huge, echoing chamber, pinpointing the other security precautions. Porten, or whoever he’d delegated the job to, was clearly sound on the tactics of the situation: a few Chimeras with the insignia of the Ironfound Defence Force on them were parked close by, ready to roll across the road and block the enemy at a moment’s notice, their turrets already angled towards the gates. Barricades had been erected behind them, no less sturdy for the speed of their construction, including several more heavy weapon emplacements. All in all, any eldar intent on forcing a passage would find themselves in an intense and protracted firefight. If they had the numbers and were willing to take a fair few casualties in the process they’d quite likely prevail in the end, but if the defenders were able to buy enough time for the 597th to get down there and properly stuck in, that would be by no means a foregone conclusion.

‘You can bet the eldar will be keeping up the pressure,’ Pelton said sourly. ‘The more refugees they force uphive, the more strain there’ll be on the infrastructure.’ Which, I’ll admit, hadn’t occurred to me, but I suppose that’s the sort of thing you have to take into account when you’re an arbitrator, like he used to be. Quelling riots and distributing food are much the same thing from the point of view of maintaining law and order.

‘Quite so.’ Mott nodded, his eyes unfocusing for a moment. ‘Since accurate population statistics for the underhive are almost a contradiction in terms it’s hard to be precise, but extrapolating the increase in uphive traffic since our last visit, and assuming that the other gates are seeing a similar trend, the resources of the upper hive will become significantly depleted in little more than a month.’

‘Then we’d better clear the eldar out quickly,’ I said, well aware as I spoke that it would be a lot easier said than done.

We began to roll forwards again, towards the nearest of the downhive tunnel mouths, starting and stopping as the vehicles ahead of us were halted for a security check. These were being conducted by local prefects, their brown helmets and body armour[130] standing out in marked contrast to the blocky blue, grey and white urban camo pattern of the Ironfound Defence squaddies who so vastly outnumbered them. Seeing our approach they waved us through, the defence force with enthusiastic but sloppy salutes as we growled past, which I returned with my best parade ground snap.[131] Beyond the gates the three tunnels seemed to run parallel for a few hundred metres, connected by narrower utility passages every score or so, down which the traffic in the others could be glimpsed momentarily as we passed. Within and between these side tunnels I caught sight of the distinctive curving surfaces of directional mines, the detonation of each one of which would send a devastating blizzard of shrapnel spreading out across the roadway, like a blast from the galaxy’s biggest shotgun; linked to motion sensors, or detonated remotely, they’d turn the entire uphive approach into a killing zone.

I felt the back of my neck begin to prickle, and, despite knowing all the safety protocols which would have to have been in place, tried not to picture the results of an accidental detonation. Thick as it was, the Chimera’s armour plating would find such a concentrated barrage hard to stand up to at such close range, and even if the projectiles failed to penetrate, the spalling[132] would probably finish us off just as effectively.

Once we were through the choke point, however, I found myself breathing a little more easily; although, of course, our chances of running into the enemy had just risen considerably. The steady flow uphive seemed to be continuing, with overcrowded vehicles and groups on foot, some pushing hand carts teetering with the weight of their worldly possessions, others having apparently abandoned everything they owned (if they’d owned anything much in the first place) apart from what they could carry in a back pack.

Judging by their clothing, watchful demeanour and prominently displayed weapons, most of the upward bound were from far deeper in the underhive, where even the basic necessities had to be fashioned from the wastefall of the higher levels; I saw blades and bows which had clearly begun life as pieces of scrap, and, in one or two instances, scrimshawed coat toggles which looked suspiciously like finger bones.

The local residents were easy to pick out, the superior quality of their clothing denoting their relatively affluent status. For the most part they appeared indifferent to the influx of refugees from further down, at least so long as they kept moving, regarding them with bovine indifference – which meant that the exodus of the lower levels had been going on for long enough to no longer be regarded as a novelty. The only interaction going on between the two groups that I could see was around the pitches set up by a few of the more enterprising of the local residents, who were offering comestibles for sale at what were no doubt extortionate prices.

Quite how quiet things would have been without the presence of the troopers scattered throughout the crowd, I wouldn’t have cared to speculate, although I suspected a great deal less. If nothing else, the presence of so many strangers from down hive seemed to have thawed the somewhat chilly relationship with the local residents Porten had hinted at.

‘This is as far as we can go,’ our driver voxed, after a few more minutes had passed, although I’d long since divined that for myself. The passageways were growing lower and narrower, the Chimera’s engine roaring more loudly as she dropped down the gears, slowing to allow the obstructing civilians to find what refuge they could before we rolled over them. Fortunately there were still plenty of side tunnels they could divert down, although the drivers of the smaller vehicles we displaced gave way with ill grace, no doubt finding them as difficult to negotiate as we were this one. Those on foot had an easier time of it, of course, squeezing into the myriad crevices lining the walls, many of which seemed to be homes or businesses of one kind or another.

Just as I was on the verge of dropping back inside the Chimera and closing the hatch, Jurgen’s halitosis seeming, on the whole, to be preferable to decapitation, the ceiling rose again, and we emerged into a moderate-sized cavern crowded with planetary defence force uniforms, utility trucks, and hastily erected flakboard additions to whatever chambers had already existed down here.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Much appreciated.’

The driver, still out of sight behind the heavy bulkhead separating the crew compartment from the passenger one, dropped the ramp with perfunctory wishes for our success and continued survival, and Pelton, Zemelda and Mott disembarked with as much haste as they deemed commensurate with their status as agents of the Inquisition. Amberley lingered a moment longer – being more used to Jurgen’s presence and conscious of the dignity of her office – then followed them, leaving my aide and I to bring up the rear.

‘Inquisitor. We were told to expect you.’ A somewhat nervous-looking young man in a defence force uniform, the aquila (with a slightly dyspeptic expression, clutching something vaguely rodentine in its talons) adorning his helmet marking him out as a captain if I remembered the local rank insignia correctly, raised a hand in greeting, thought better of it, lowered it again, then saluted me with an air of palpable relief at being back on familiar protocol terrain. I returned it, and he looked back at Amberley with the faint air of a puppy hoping for a biscuit. ‘Any assistance we can give you, you only have to ask.’

‘Thank you.’ Amberley inclined her head graciously, while Pelton and Zemelda took up position at her shoulders, apparently alert for any unexpected threat despite the relative safety of our position. ‘Perhaps a summation of your people’s disposition down here?’

‘Morale’s quite good, for the most part,’ the young officer said, before belatedly realising that wasn’t quite what she’d meant. ‘I mean, we’re well established here, with reasonable defensive lines.’ He pulled out a data-slate, and called up a crude two-dimensional map. ‘This is our position, with two other forward posts here and here.’ His confidence was clearly increasing as he began to warm to a subject he was comfortable with. ‘We’ve sent recon units deeper into the hive, but none of them have reported contact with the enemy yet.’

‘Have any of them not reported back at all?’ I asked, since that would be fairly definite confirmation of where the enemy was.

The young officer shook his head. ‘None of them have missed a routine check in,’ he said, looking faintly troubled, although the possibility must have occurred to him by now. ‘We’ve had a couple of anxious moments, though.’

‘Anxious how?’ Amberley asked, an instant before I could.

‘Temporary comms failures,’ the officer said. ‘The vox signals get weaker the deeper our patrols penetrate into the underhive.’ Something I could have told him from personal experience, although I suppose it might have come as an unwelcome novelty to the Ironfound Defence Force, used as they were to operating in the higher levels where there were plenty of vox-relays to boost and channel a signal. Down in the lower depths, the tumbled masses of ’crete, metal and bedrock would attenuate and distort them unpredictably.

Reminded of the fact that we’d soon be out of contact ourselves, I tapped the vox-bead in my ear.

‘Cain to command,’ I said. ‘We’ve arrived at the Ironfound Defence outpost.’ I raised my voice a little, over the growling of our Chimera, which was churning up the ground under its tracks as the driver spun it on the spot[133] preparatory to setting off back the way she’d come. ‘We’ll be moving out shortly.’

‘Acknowledged,’ Kasteen said, her voice still reasonably clear after being bounced through the armoured personnel carrier’s far more powerful vox-system. By the time it got back to the gates, though, it would probably be too far away to pick up the relatively weak signal from my comm-bead. We might still be able to get a message back to the command centre for a short while by using the local defence force network, but judging by what we’d just been told I somehow doubted that. ‘Anything we need to know?’ Which, I suppose, was a little more tactful than Any last messages?’ would have been.

‘Still no contact with the eldar,’ I said.

Even over the deteriorating vox-link, Kasteen’s resigned exhalation sounded loud in my ear. ‘I wish I thought that was a good thing.’

‘You and me both,’ I said, returning my attention to Amberley and the officer in front of us.

‘Right,’ Amberley said decisively. ‘We’re moving out. I think we’ve got all the information we’ll need.’ She nodded at the young man, who looked faintly relieved, not realising she meant ‘all the information we’re likely to get out of this one.’ She glanced at Mott. ‘Any recommendations?’

The savant nodded. ‘I’d recommend retracing our previous line of descent, as that would be the fastest route to the webway portal. We’re thirteen point one seven nine kilometres from it at the moment, but we should intersect with it at the trading post where you shot the Redemptionists who tried to burn Rakel as a witch.’

‘Not so,’ Zemelda said, with a contemptuous sniff, ‘they tried singeing everyone.’

‘She was the only one they thought was a witch,’ Pelton said, in reasonable tones. ‘They only wanted to burn the rest of us because we were with her.’

‘Sounds like a fascinating story,’ I interjected, before anyone could start telling it, particularly Mott. ‘Perhaps Jurgen and I could hear it on the way to the trading post.’

‘If it’s still there,’ Amberley said, shrugging the straps of her rucksack into place. ‘It was pretty deep down. Probably overrun by the eldar days ago.’

‘You’re making this sound more and more fun with every second,’ I said, and Throne help me she actually laughed.

Sixteen

After leaving the Ironfound Defence Force post we followed one of the main trade routes for a while, but rapidly became weary of forging against the flow of upward-bound travellers – not to mention periodic firefights with gangers and scavvies protective of their territories, made even more trigger-happy than usual by the influx of downhive refugees. Accordingly, we left the well-travelled paths and the larger settlements they linked at the earliest opportunity, striking off into the smaller tunnels, where we were less likely to encounter anyone.

Which wasn’t the same as not encountering anyone at all, of course, although most of the locals we came across seemed to be giving us a wide berth, betraying their presence only by the scuffling sounds they made as they retreated into the many side passages and long-abandoned chambers surrounding us.

‘Scavvies setting a bushwhack?’ Zemelda asked, the first time this happened, and I shook my head; there was still enough light seeping through from the main tunnels for me to be confident that she’d pick up the gesture, even though we were barely visible to one another as anything more than silhouettes by now.

‘Doubt it,’ I said, though I kept my hands close to my weapons from force of habit. Judging by the pattern of echoes there were only three of them, and they were definitely moving away. ‘There aren’t enough of them to take us all, and they’re in the wrong place to set up a crossfire.’

‘You can really tell that just by listening?’ Pelton shrugged, trying not to sound too impressed. ‘For all I know it could just be rodents out there.’

‘Too loud, and no squeaking,’ I said. The truth was, I couldn’t have told him how I knew even if I could have been bothered; it was just something I’d grown up doing, in a place not too dissimilar to this.

‘Three people, moving away,’ Amberley confirmed, her face illuminated by the glow of the portable auspex she’d produced from a pocket while Pelton and I spoke. ‘No other life signs in the vicinity.’ Which wasn’t entirely true, as there were indeed rodents scurrying around not far from here if my ears and nose were any judge, but the little machine-spirit was only on the lookout for anything human sized or thereabouts.

‘Neat trick,’ Zemelda said, with a glance of approval in my direction, ‘but seeing would zenith.’

Mott nodded. ‘Visual acuity in this environment would speed our progress appreciably,’ he agreed.

‘Luminators, then,’ Amberley said, ‘we’ve got no time to waste. Although I was hoping to hold off using them for a while, to conserve the powercells.’

‘Don’t worry, miss,’ Jurgen said, patting one of his webbing pouches, ‘I brought a few spares.’

‘And we don’t all have to carry one,’ I said. ‘That would save some light for later, in case we need it.’ And possibly my neck, if I hung back towards the rear of the group, as whoever was out in front lighting the way would be the first target of an attack from ambush.

A fear which failed to materialise, however, as we continued on down into the gathering darkness, which began to wrap itself around us like a suffocating cloak, seeming all the denser the moment we kindled the luminators. Mott had been right, we did move a lot faster once we could see where we were putting our feet, but the down side to that was that everything outside the narrow cones of light[134] was now blanketed in impenetrable gloom. Every now and again I skipped through the frequencies of my vox-bead, but as I’d expected I picked up nothing but static, or the occasional planetary defence force transmission, too faint and distorted by distance and intervening obstructions to make out anything beyond a word or two. Frustrating as this was, I found these fragments of contact with the wider world obscurely comforting, a reminder that we weren’t entirely alone down here, and when we eventually stopped for a rest I took my turn to sleep with the faint, indecipherable murmuring still susurrating in my ear.

Only to wake abruptly, with the familiar dream images of my encounter with the daemon Emeli aboard the Adumbrian mining barge fading from my conscious mind, though not nearly fast enough to suit me, and an urgent, clearer voice echoing across the vox-channel: ‘Contact! Contact! Contact! Xenos moving uphive, zone zero nine zero, plural red alpha. Engaging.’

The reply was too faint to make out, although I found myself hoping the defence force vox-operator was having better luck in that regard than I was;[135] it would have been ironic, to say the least, if one of the scouting parties had finally found the enemy and no one further up the command chain was able to make use of the information.

A familiar odour washed over me, and I sat up, grabbing my weapons. Jurgen had stowed his lasgun in favour of the melta, which never presaged anything good.

‘Gunfire,’ he said, gesturing with a grubby thumb in the direction of a tunnel mouth leading off at an angle from the direction of our march so far, which Mott had assured us was the most direct and efficient route towards where we needed to be. Sure enough, the savant was shaking his head.

‘If we take that direction, we’ll add a minimum of twelve and a maximum of thirty-seven hours to the time taken to reach our objective,’ he said, ‘depending on the number and nature of obstructions and other delays we encounter.’

‘Would that include an army of eldar?’ I asked, rhetorically, only to regret the flippant remark at once as Mott shook his head.

‘Not an army,’ he said, ‘as our chances of surviving such an encounter are too low to constitute a meaningful numerical value. A patrol or scouting party small enough to overcome or evade, however, would account for the higher end of the range of probable delays.’

‘Good enough for me,’ I said. I pointed to the tunnel mouth we’d originally been intending to take. ‘Let’s stick to the plan.’ Especially as blundering into the middle of a firefight wasn’t exactly my idea of fun.

‘Yes, we should.’ Amberley glanced thoughtfully at the side passage through which the faint echo of combat was still permeating, and my heart skipped a momentary beat, anticipating a sudden change of mind. ‘Might be useful to see how far they’ve got, but…’

‘The local troops can take care of that,’ Pelton said, and I nodded, as though I’d been considering going to take a look myself.

‘They’ve already called it in,’ I said, skipping over any lingering doubts I might have had about whether their message had actually been received. ‘They’ve probably got reinforcements on the way by now.’ Or they were retreating as fast as they could manage to disengage.

‘So let’s go and happen to some pointy-ears,’ Zemelda said, with what seemed to me to be an unhealthy amount of enthusiasm.

‘So long as it’s not the other way round,’ Pelton replied dryly, which pretty much summed up my own feelings on the matter.

The sounds of distant combat had long faded away, along with the voices of the planetary defence force in my comm-bead, when Zemelda held up a cautioning hand, slowing and sweeping the beam of her luminator across the floor of the tunnel ahead. Something dark and indeterminate was lying there.

‘Step easy,’ she said. ‘Something’s not rising over there.’

‘Looks like a body,’ Jurgen supplemented, before adding ‘a dead one,’ in case we hadn’t got the point.

‘Dead of what?’ Amberley asked, while we closed in on one another in sudden mutual apprehension, drawing our weapons as we did so.[136]

‘Hard to tell,’ Zemelda said, circling the corpse cautiously, keeping it centred in the beam of her luminator as though offering it for sale, or expecting it to get up and perform a comic monologue. She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s been here a while. No shuriken or las-bolt wounds that I can see.’

‘Looks like a scavvy,’ I said, feeling I ought to contribute and remind everyone that I was the expert on underhives around here. ‘And a long way up hive from where you’d expect him to be.’

‘Her,’ Zemelda said, moving around to the front of the corpse, then shying in instinctive revulsion which, coming from an Inquisition operative, was hardly comforting. ‘Eeew. Gorge raising.’ She kicked the body, rolling it over, and I must confess to flinching momentarily myself. A bloodied skull was leering at me, tattered shreds of flesh still clinging to parts of the bone, one eye socket clogged with congealed blood. I took a firmer grip on my weapons, flicking the laspistol’s safety off, and resting my thumb on the activation stud of my chainsword.

‘Interesting.’ Amberley bent down for a closer look. ‘The scalp’s still intact. And most of the neck.’

I felt the familiar tingling in the palms of my hands, which usually means my subconscious is trying to remind me of something I didn’t know I knew, or some threat my conscious mind hasn’t recognised yet is lurking in ambush.

‘Whatever killed her, it moved fast,’ Pelton said, picking up something just outside the cone of light Zemelda was splashing about, and Mott obligingly swung his own luminator towards the former arbitrator, peering with interest at the object in his hand. ‘She didn’t even have time to get off a shot.’ He held out a crude autopistol, apparently pieced together from the remaining working parts of several others.

‘Lacerations on the hands, too,’ Amberley said. ‘Mainly on the palms. Defensive wounds?’

‘Highly unlikely,’ Mott said. ‘Typically, those would be on the backs of the hands, or the forearms, if she’d been attempting to ward off a blow.’

‘Grasping something, then,’ Amberley said. ‘Trying to pull off whatever was attached to her face, perhaps.’

‘Looks like ’nids if you ask me,’ Jurgen said.

I nodded slowly, fighting the impulse to dart nervous glances into the darker recesses surrounding us in search of a lurking lictor. The wounds did indeed look like the kind of damage inflicted by a glancing hit from a tyranid fleshborer, but if it had been one of those, our boots would have been crunching on the carapaces of the now deceased ammunition[137] from the moment we first approached the corpse. ‘Great,’ I said, trying to hide my apprehension behind a flimsy screen of laboured sarcasm, ‘rampaging eldar and a Chaos cult aren’t nearly enough to be going on with. A side order of tyranids is just what we need to round things off.’

To my relief, however, Amberley was shaking her head in manifest scepticsm. ‘Can’t see it,’ she said. ‘If a hive ship was anywhere in-system the shadow in the warp ahead of it would have given every astropath on Ironfound a nose-bleed by now.’

‘That doesn’t rule out a genestealer cult,’ Pelton said, just as I was starting to feel a bit better.

Amberley shook her head again. ‘If there’s one of those anywhere on Ironfound it’ll be concentrating on seeing off the eldar. After generations of getting ready to feed this world to the tyranids they wouldn’t want to start all over again with an entirely new species.’

‘There’s another one over here,’ Jurgen called, having wandered a little way further down the passage, away from the lights, to let his eyes adjust. With his back to the luminators his night vision would work a little more efficiently, hopefully allowing him to see any threats approaching from deeper in the underhive in time to react to it. ‘Man this time.’

‘Killed the same way?’ I asked, moving to join him; like my aide, I preferred to give my senses as much time as possible to detect trouble coming.

‘Think so,’ Jurgen said. ‘Most of his face is missing too.’

Which was pretty conclusive if you asked me. I circled round the corpse, a little warily, looking for anything which might provide a clue as to what had done this. Now my eyes were adjusting to the lower light levels we were standing in, I could make out a couple of other indistinct shapes in the darkness ahead, and I didn’t need the tingling of my palms to apprehend what they might be. I peered into the gloom, hoping my guess was wrong, but uncomfortably certain that it wasn’t. Preoccupied, I failed to notice where I was putting my own feet until I stumbled, my right boot stubbing against something hard and faintly yielding.

‘What’s that?’ Amberley asked, her attention attracted by my muttered profanity, and Zemelda obligingly redirected her luminator, momentarily dazzling me and frakking up my almost-restored night vision in the process.

‘Looks like a bag,’ Jurgen said, taking the question as literally as ever, and poking it with the barrel of his melta as he spoke – which I suppose was one way of finding out whether the contents were toxic or explosive, though not one I’d have chosen to use myself. ‘Seems to have pebbles in.’

‘Really.’ Amberley seemed surprisingly interested in the prospect. She gestured to Mott. ‘Could they be what I think they are?’

‘That would depend on what you’re thinking,’ Mott said, predictably enough, ‘but given the similarity of these garments to the ones worn by the scavvies we encountered at the site of the webway portal, there’s an eighty-seven per cent probability that these are indeed spirit stones.’ Which meant nothing to me, of course.

‘Spirit stones?’ I asked. I knew that the eldar generally carried a jewel of some kind as a good luck charm,[138] and would make strenuous efforts to recover those of their fallen comrades, but the strength of their attachment to their trinklets meant that I’d never seen one up close.

Amberley nodded, as Mott picked up the bag. It seemed to fluoresce faintly in response, although I couldn’t be sure at first whether it really was glowing, or whether I was merely seeing the after-images of Zemelda’s luminator. Then he moved a layer of padding aside, and I was left in no doubt. The collection of fist-sized stones within really were giving off a soft refulgence, a breathtaking display which seemed oddly compelling, holding my attention until Mott closed the bag again.

‘Every eldar carries one,’ she said, although any Guardsman who’d ever faced the pointy-ears could have told me that. Her next statement came as a bit of a surprise, though. ‘Something to do with their funeral rites. No one’s sure why, but they seem to believe it protects their souls from Slaanesh.’

‘No wonder they trashed the temple on Drechia,’ I said. Come to that, it probably explained why the farseer was willing to offer the truce which had seemed so baffling at the time. Given the choice between slaughtering a few more humans and protecting the souls of his people, he could hardly have done otherwise.

‘That probably had something to do with it,’ Amberley agreed, while Mott redistributed the contents of his backpack to make room for the bundle of stones.

‘Two more dead ones,’ Pelton called, from a few dozen metres further down the tunnel. ‘Flesh eaten away on the front of the heads, no obvious cause of death.’ He paused. ‘Other than that, of course.’

‘Any more spirit stones?’ Amberley asked, and Pelton shook his head.

‘No. I’ve already checked.’ Of course he had, careful searches of a crime scene were second nature to him.

‘So,’ I said, glancing down at the corpse I was standing beside, ‘they were coming uphive from down the tunnel there. Something attacked them.’ I called across to Pelton. ‘Any weapons near those bodies?’

‘Both of them,’ he confirmed, ‘much good it seems to have done them.’

‘Right.’ A picture was beginning to emerge which I really didn’t like the look of. ‘They were ambushed. The two back there tried to hold off whatever it was,’ because as sure as the Emperor’s immortality it hadn’t been a who, ‘while these two made a run for it with the loot. Getting all of a hundred metres.’

‘Before whatever it was caught up with them,’ Amberley finished, and I nodded.

‘It definitely wasn’t the eldar, because they’d have taken the stones.’ I glanced at Jurgen. ‘And whatever it looks like it can’t have been ’nids, because it doesn’t make sense for them to be here in the first place. Mutants or gangers would have looted the bodies, and pretty much anything else I can think of liable to be down here would have eaten the whole corpse, not just the flesh on the heads.’ I shuddered at a very uncomfortable thought I wish I hadn’t had. ‘Which leaves the cultists.’

‘Nothing human did that,’ Zemelda said decisively.

‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘But maybe they summoned something. Like that daemon on Drechia.’

‘I wish you hadn’t said that,’ Amberley said, echoing my own thoughts. ‘Because if there is a daemon on the loose down here, we’re walking right towards it.’ She took an uneasy glance down the tunnel ahead of us.

‘Maybe we should have brought Vekkman along,’ I said, regretting it the instant I saw the expression on Amberley’s face.

‘And maybe we shouldn’t,’ she said, in a tone I recognised as indicating that the subject was now definitively closed. She turned to Mott. ‘Got the stones packed?’

The savant nodded, and reshouldered his rucksack. ‘As safely as can be managed under the circumstances.’

‘Good.’ Amberley nodded decisively, and turned back to me. ‘Then let’s go and look for this daemon of yours.’

Seventeen

As I’m sure you’ll appreciate, I was hardly keen to take point, but I found myself doing so anyway, half a pace behind my aide’s left shoulder, breathing as shallowly as possible through my mouth, my eyes and ears straining to pierce the gloom surrounding us. (Given the melta’s destructive capability there was no way I was going to get in front of it while Jurgen had the safety off, quite aside from the possibility of blocking his line of fire at a crucial moment.) Zemelda had extinguished her luminator, stowing it in favour of drawing her laspistol, which showed a keen grasp of priorities so far as I could see, leaving Mott’s the only source of light anywhere in our vicinity. By staying a couple of dozen metres ahead of the others, and keeping our backs to it, Jurgen and I were able to make out enough of our surroundings not to stumble too often on the detritus littering the ground.

As so often in this kind of environment, however, I found myself relying on my ears more than my eyes, starting at every creak and rattle of dislodged rubble, mentally sifting the echoes for any warning of a sudden attack. The first couple of scavvies we’d found had presumably been aware of what had killed their companions, and the woman had even had a weapon in her hand judging by the position it had fallen in, but whatever had killed them had still been too fast for her to react to in time. Not a thought I was comfortable with, under the circumstances.

‘Still nothing on the auspex,’ Amberley called, which she presumably intended to be reassuring, but which most definitely wasn’t. If it couldn’t even detect the vermin infesting the place, then I didn’t have an awful lot of confidence in its ability to pick up the abnatural.

And at that thought, my palms started to tingle again. The skittering and rustling in the shadows which I associated with the rodents I’d normally expect to hear in a place like this was unusually muted, and had been for some time. In fact, now I came to think about it, I hadn’t heard any squeaking for several minutes.

‘Something’s definitely wrong,’ I said, holding up my hand to halt our advance, then my boot crunched against something yielding. I froze, images of tyranid spores flooding my brain, despite being well aware that such a thing down here was quite impossible.

Jurgen glanced down. ‘Bones,’ he said, his eyes already moving on to the floor ahead of us. ‘Hundreds of ’em.’

He was right. The stretch of tunnel in front of where we were standing was already growing brighter as Zemelda and the others approached, revealing a veritable carpet of rodentine corpses. What was left of them, anyway, which was little more than skeletons, even the hide and hair only present in shreds and patches – and for someone as familiar as I was with the unpalatability[139] and impenetrability of underhive ratskin, that was a distinctly worrying prospect. Anything capable of gnawing through that – let alone consuming it – wasn’t something to take lightly.

‘Stay back,’ I said, gesturing to the others – not that I wouldn’t have welcomed a few more bodies between me and whatever had killed the rats, but it seemed to me that our best chance of survival was being able to see or hear it coming. To my vague surprise they complied at once, without argument, freezing in place and bringing their weapons to bear down the tunnel. Which, as it turned out, was just as well.

Now the cacophony of scuffling boot soles, rustling garments and heavy breathing was stilled, I was able to contemplate the tunnel ahead of us without distraction. It had evidently been an outflow of some kind millennia before, and probably still was on occasion judging by the erosion of the rockcrete and the lingering smell. But the surface underfoot was quite dry, the only damp to be seen condensing on the partially visible reinforcing bars protruding from the roof where sections of it had fallen away to form mounds of debris on the floor, through which we’d been picking our way for some time. Pipes or conduits had apparently run along the roof of the channel too, mostly now fallen, leaving the stubs of their supporting brackets, but the pipes themselves had long since been spirited away by enterprising hivesteaders; the few exceptions left clinging on grimly to the intact parts of the ceiling were no doubt too inaccessible to bother with. They were thick with the dust of centuries, their outlines blurred, as though wrapped in shreds of tattered cloth. As my eyes continued to adjust, it seemed as if that was actually the case – the last remnants of old insulating material perhaps, rustling faintly as they stirred in the air currents.

Then, with sudden sickening clarity, I realised what I was looking at. The faint whisper of circulating air against my face wasn’t nearly strong enough to move anything as much as that.

‘Back the way we came,’ I said, urgently. ‘Slowly.’

Matching the deed to the word, I began to follow my own advice, Jurgen keeping the melta trained down the tunnel as he retreated after me. Anyone else might have hesitated, or asked what the hell I was on about, but we’d been through so much together that he simply followed my lead without hesitation or question.

‘What is it?’ Amberley asked, still staring at the auspex, as though that was going to be of any use.

‘Face-eaters,’ I said. The Catachan predators had, like far too many unpleasant species around the galaxy, hitched a lift off their home world millennia before, nestled among cargo pods or deliberately relocated by idiots who thought they could contain them, finding a veritable home from home on a number of other death worlds or, in this case, the lower levels of the underhive.[140] The only time I’d ever seen one in the flesh before was in the jungles of Mychtarsh, when it decided to snack on an ork lurking in ambush ahead of us, and the ensuing firefight with the greenskins had left me little time to study the local wildlife.

For a moment, I thought we might actually make it, sneaking away before the ghastly things became aware of our presence, but of course we had no such luck. The nearest must have detected our body heat,[141] as without warning it suddenly sprang at Jurgen’s head. As so often my reflexes took over and I struck at it with the chainsword before I even knew what I was doing, cleaving it neatly in two. It looked like a large, ravenous towel, studded on the underside with far too many teeth, claws and diseased-looking nodules oozing acidic digestive juices. The back of it was almost as bad, bristling with spines, which probably explained the condition of the hands of the first corpse we’d discovered.

As the bisected sheet of viscid flesh splattered on the tunnel floor, an ominous rustling began to pervade the roost. ‘Run!’ I bellowed, suiting the action to the word and turning to let fly a flurry of las-bolts from the pistol in my hand as I broke into a sprint. I caught a couple as they sprang,[142] punching holes through their middles, and they dropped spasming to the pitted rockcrete. I’d hoped the others would have stopped to take advantage of the free meal, but apparently they had no appetite for cannibalism, carrion or both, launching themselves towards us in a wave of skittering horror instead.

Everyone opened up with whatever weapons they had in their hands, smacking down the vanguard, but there were plenty more where they’d come from. I took up a guard position with the chainsword, protecting my face, skewering another of the hideous things as it sprang at my head. I turned to flick the macerated remains from the whirling blade, avoiding one which passed through the space I’d just vacated more by luck than judgement as a second, possibly its mate, followed the first. The abominable creature just missed my head and smacked into the tunnel floor, where it lay wriggling, gathering itself for another leap. Before it got the chance I stamped down, feeling something squish, crunch and squirm under my boot sole. Only then did I remember the spines on its back, but fortunately they proved no match for the cured nauga hide of my Guard-issue combat boots, bending and snapping off as I kicked out at the vile abomination.

‘There are too many of them,’ Amberley said, matter-of-factly – and, in my opinion, far from helpfully. The others were still up and fighting, although not for much longer, probably. Pelton was blowing one after another to offal with his bolt pistol, as calmly as if they were nothing more lethal than targets in a shooting gallery, but each one he despatched was incrementally closer than the last, and the Emperor alone knew how many more shots he had left; the moment he ran dry, one of the hideous things would be on him before he had a chance to reload. Zemelda had one clinging to the arm she’d raised to protect her face, flailing wildly as she tried to keep it at a distance, bludgeoning at it with the butt of her laspistol – from which I inferred she’d already burned through the power pack[143] – while Mott ran to help her, the razor-edged glint of a combat knife in his hand. Me, I’d have dropped the luminator and gone for the laspistol still holstered below his shoulder, but I suppose he was worried about the possibility of hitting his fellow acolyte by mistake (the odds of which he’d no doubt calculated to the trillionth decimal place).

‘Hang on, sir,’ Jurgen said, his voice as conversational as if we were out for an evening constitutional, casually batting one of the predators aside with the barrel of his melta as he spoke. It smacked into the tunnel wall and clung there for a moment, before Amberley reduced it to offal with a pistol bolt. ‘I’ve got this.’

Forewarned, I closed my eyes just in time, seeing the flash of the melta’s activation punch through my eyelids, and blinked my vision clear of the dancing after-images. ‘That’ll slow ‘em down.’

And indeed it seemed to have done, tearing a ragged, smoking hole through the heart of the roost, from which patches of greasy, foul-smelling smoke rose in several places.

‘Indeed it has,’ I said, potting a somewhat singed specimen as it attempted to spring at me in a rather lopsided fashion. The rush towards us had subsided, the few surviving face-eaters now clinging to crevices in the walls and roof, rather than bounding in our direction. The odour of charred offal was almost stifling, thin curls of greasy smoke rising from unpleasant-looking patches of seared flesh littering the tunnel floor, and I fought down the gag reflex with a moment’s effort.

‘How’s Zemelda?’ I asked. Not that I was particularly bothered, of course, but it was the sort of thing I was supposed to say in the interests of morale.

‘I’ve felt better,’ the young woman said through gritted teeth, her face pale from delayed shock. Mott was supporting the arm he’d cut the face-eater away from – now a mangled mess of blood and flesh, with rather too much of the bone beneath visible for my liking.[144] ‘Just need to get this patched up, and we can move on.’

‘Not this way,’ I said, peering into the darkness ahead of us. The face-eaters had been driven back by our weapons, particularly the ravening power of the melta, but if my ears were to be trusted there were plenty more lurking further down the tunnel, the stirring and rustling growing in intensity as the whole damned roost became aware that there was prey in the vicinity. ‘There’s plenty more where that lot came from.’

‘We can take them,’ Zemelda said, wincing a little as Jurgen started working on her arm with the contents of the medicae kit he’d produced from somewhere among his collection of pouches.

But to my relief, Amberley was shaking her head. ‘We got lucky,’ she said. She turned away, back in the direction we’d come. ‘We’ll need to go round them. Take the other tunnel, and leave the face-eaters as a surprise for the eldar.’

‘The tunnel leading to the main line of their advance?’ I asked, trying to sound casual, and tapping the vox-bead in my ear as I spoke. ‘Where the defence force got into a firefight with them?’ There was still some vox traffic on the defence force frequencies, but as before it was too faint and distorted for me to gain any useful information by listening to it.

Amberley nodded. ‘That’s the one,’ she said cheerfully, and began leading the way back towards a different mortal danger to the one we’d just escaped.

Eighteen

If you’ve read much of these ramblings of mine, you’ll no doubt appreciate that I found the idea of heading straight for the main concentration of the enemy far from appealing, but I knew from long experience that there was no arguing with Amberley once her mind was made up. So I made the best of it, hanging back a little with a show of concern for Zemelda, who by now was looking a little more chipper thanks to Jurgen’s ministrations, and understandably reluctant to remain too close to her benefactor. Now it seemed we weren’t stalking or being stalked by a daemon after all I was a little more sanguine myself about being further away from my aide, and was quite happy to let him lead the party alongside Amberley, his melta, as always, at the ready.

‘Any slang in the ear?’ Zemelda asked, and I nodded, mentally translating her idiosyncratic Gothic into an enquiry as to whether I was picking up any more transmissions from the Ironfound Defence Force.

‘Coming through more clearly,’ I said, with a mingled sense of relief and trepidation. On the one hand, it was distinctly comforting to know that we were getting closer to allies with guns, who’d pitch in to help us if we got into trouble; but on the other, most of the units I was listening to were already engaging the enemy, or getting ready to do so, which meant that we were just as likely to run into the eldar instead. I raised my voice a little, to get Amberley’s attention. ‘The enemy seem to be advancing up every tunnel the defence force are covering.’

‘Then we’ll just have to find another way down,’ Amberley said, as I’d expected she would but hoped she wouldn’t. By this time the webway portal would be positively gushing eldar, and however desirable cutting it off would be, getting close enough to try would be tantamount to suicide.

‘That won’t be easy,’ I said, trying to sound ruefully determined, rather than like someone trying to find a way out of the job entirely. ‘They’ll be swarming through every passageway they can fit down by now.’

‘Then we’ll look for a route only a few of them are using,’ Amberley said, meaning ‘we’ll have to fight our way through’ without actually saying so. Which I’m bound to say sounded like a truly terrible idea to me. Fortunately, before I could think of an adequate riposte, her attention became riveted on the auspex, which she’d continued to cling to as though it were an icon of the Emperor Himself. ‘I’m picking up movement ahead. Too many blips for an accurate count.’

‘Human or eldar?’ I asked, although I didn’t suppose the little device’s machine-spirit could tell them apart, or would care that much even if it were able to.

‘Both, probably,’ Amberley said, as the distant crackle of lasgun fire began to echo down the tunnel, underscored by the sinister hiss of eldar shuriken. I drew my chainsword again, having scabbarded the relatively unwieldy weapon after our little run-in with the face-eaters, and silently blessed the foresight[145] which had led me to keep the laspistol ready for use in my other hand. Jurgen, of course, had kept the melta pointed ahead of us the whole way, and I moved up to join him, determined to get the full benefit of its protection if he needed to use it in a hurry.

‘Douse the luminators,’ I said, and darkness fell around us at once, in spite of my apprehension that I’d have to argue the point. For a moment or two the surrounding blackness seemed impenetrable; then, as I’d expected, my eyes began to pick up a diffuse glow in the distance, flickering faintly as the sounds of combat ebbed and flowed. ‘Good. At least we know where the enemy are.’

‘Coming this way, by the look of it,’ Jurgen said, aiming the melta carefully down the tunnel ahead of us. He was right, too; the glow was growing perceptibly brighter, while the echoing crackles and susurration of the firefight became correspondingly louder. ‘Looks like the locals have the eldar on the run.’

‘Or the other way round,’ I said, not quite willing to believe that we’d ever be that lucky.

‘Weapons ready,’ Amberley ordered crisply, ‘but don’t fire until you’re sure of a target.’

My aide emitted a phlegm-laden chuckle, and patted the melta. ‘I’m always sure of a target with this.’

‘Stay quiet,’ I said, as the rustling and clicking of guns being drawn and made ready to fire echoed in the air around me. I was under no illusion that whoever was approaching would pass by without noticing us, but the longer they remained unaware of our presence, the better I liked it. I listened to the voices in my comm-bead, which were growing clearer, and a little more excited than would be permitted by Imperial Guard vox discipline, but that was perfectly understandable given the circumstances. Lacking anything to orientate the combatants by, however, it was still impossible to tell yet whether we were being approached by planetary defence force troopers retreating from the eldar, or xenos interlopers being pushed back in the direction they’d attacked from. As the approaching lights grew brighter, however, I began to apprehend shadows in front of them, ducking and weaving, distorted by the wavering glow and the intervening distance as well as the rapid movements of people in combat trying to present as small a target as possible. After a while the shadows began to solidify, the profile of their crested helmets unmistakable.

‘Pointy-ears,’ Jurgen growled, all but inaudibly, and I nodded, responding with a few words of caution, almost as quietly as he’d spoken, hoping I’d still be heard by the others without giving our position away to the approaching eldar. As it turned out, though, I needn’t have worried; their attention was entirely on the local troops they were engaging, and any noises we might have made were being drowned out by the sounds of their own weapons.

‘Wait for it,’ I murmured, ‘wait for it… Fire!’

A withering barrage of las-bolts, pistol bolts and the actinic flare of the melta scythed out ahead of us, felling the scurrying eldar, who had no chance to register our presence or retaliate before they were mown down – which might strike some of you as a trifle unsporting, but which was fine by me. Still is, come to think of it; they’d have done the same to us in a heartbeat if they’d had the chance. One, a little luckier than the rest, survived long enough to bring his shuriken launcher round towards the general direction the barrage of fire had come from, only to be felled by a pistol bolt which detonated inside his helmet, pureeing his head, before he had the chance to pull the trigger.

‘Good shot,’ I said, unsure whether Amberley or Pelton had made the kill, and the former arbitrator accepted the compliment with a modest nod, slowly becoming more visible as the approaching light grew in intensity. There appeared to be several luminators fixed to the barrels of lasguns being carried, so far as I could tell behind their dazzling flare, by close to a full squad of the local defence force.

‘Who goes there?’ their leader called, a hint of nervousness trying to elbow its way past his business-like tone, and I was pleased to note that the front rank of troopers kept us covered as we emerged into the light. True, we’d just gunned down their enemies, but I wouldn’t have assumed our good intentions if I were in his shoes either. For all he knew we might have been a displaced scavvy gang, with designs on their weapons and ration packs.

‘Commissar Cain,’ I said, stepping forward fully into the light where they’d get a good look at me and, with any luck, not take too much notice of my companions. I gestured in Jurgen’s direction, reflecting that once they caught sight of him, none of the others would make much of an impression by comparison. ‘And my aide, Gunner Jurgen. We’re on a recon sweep, with a special ops team from our regiment.’ All right, the inquisitor and her retinue didn’t look much like any Guard troopers I’d ever seen, but Amberley’s dark grey bodyglove and the soberly hued utility clothing of her acolytes made them look similar enough to have possibly been in some kind of uniform intended to be used down holes like this, and I was pretty sure the sergeant in charge wasn’t going to be too familiar with Astra Militarum protocols anyway – especially as pretty much every regiment in the Guard has its own way of doing things.

I glanced at Amberley as I spoke, receiving an almost imperceptible nod, which reassured me I’d done the right thing in not revealing her true identity. No doubt the news that an inquisitor was active on Ironfound had spread through the ranks like a dose of the pox, but no one had to know just where she was and what she was up to.

‘Commissar.’ A young corporal, who looked about twelve to my jaded eyes, but was probably at least twice that, saluted smartly. ‘No one told us you were down here.’

‘That was the idea,’ I said, smiling confidentially. ‘If I’d gone through channels I’d just have been shown what the rear echelon chair warmers wanted me to see, instead of finding out what things are really like at the sharp end.’ Which was the right thing to say, of course. Long experience had shown me that the best way to get the squaddies on your side was to imply, without actually saying so, that you were more concerned about them than the officers further up the command chain.

‘We’re holding our own,’ the corporal told me, with a glance at the four eldar corpses on the floor at his feet, ‘but we’re grateful for your assistance all the same.’

I smiled again, calibrating it for just the right amount of warm approval. ‘Not that you seem to need it,’ I said. ‘But I’m pleased to have seen for myself that nothing I’ve heard about the fighting spirit of the…’ I squinted at his unit patch, which fortunately was perfectly visible from this angle, ‘Midfoundry Twenty-Third has been exaggerated.’ Which was true enough, as I’d never even been aware of the regiment’s existence before. Nevertheless, the implied compliment had the desired effect of boosting the morale of everyone present, who seemed to inflate a little at having been singled out by a Hero of the Imperium for their exceptional devotion to duty.

‘What are they doing?’ Amberley asked, a hard edge coming into her voice, and I have to admit to some puzzlement myself. Four of the troopers were kneeling over the eldar corpses, a little gingerly in the case of the one Jurgen had barbequed, prising the spirit stones away from their armour with the points of their combat knives.

A faintly puzzled frown appeared on the corporal’s face. ‘Collecting the stones,’ he said. ‘We’ve had orders to bring back as many as we can.’

‘Why?’ Amberley asked, and the young man shrugged.

‘No idea. They’re pretty enough, but they’re just dead weight on top of our kit, and if the pointy-ears know you’re carrying one they’ll fight like daemons to get to it instead of backing off when anyone with any tactical sense would just withdraw.’

‘And where do these orders come from?’ I asked, and, once again, the corporal shrugged.

‘Right from the top,’ he said, ‘that’s all the lieutenant said. One of those need to know things.’

‘Of course,’ I said.

The young man dropped his voice confidentially. ‘If you ask me, it’s that inquisitor everyone’s been talking about. No one knows why they do anything, but it’s bound to be important.’

‘Yes, it is.’ Amberley nodded, with a decisive glance up the tunnel behind the planetary defence force squad. ‘Is the way to the nearest gate still clear?’

‘Pretty much,’ the corporal confirmed, while I tried not to let my sudden surge of relief show on my face. ‘We’re holding the line for now, although a few of the eldar are managing to filter through.’ He nodded, with rather more confidence than tactical acumen. ‘Plenty more of our lads further up hive to stop ’em, though.’

‘Good.’ Amberley gestured us forward, past the troopers, who watched us go with politely restrained curiosity. ‘Then the quicker we get back the better.’

‘What happened to trying to close down the webway?’ I asked, once I was sure we were no longer in earshot of the local militia. Not that I was keen to resume trying to get to it, quite the contrary, but it wasn’t like Amberley to change her mind about mission objectives once we were out in the field.[146] Fortunately, however, she seemed at least as focused on this new one as she had been on the old, which was fine by me.

‘This business with the spirit stones changes everything,’ she said. ‘I want a word with Vekkman, about what in the warp he thinks he’s up to.’

Nineteen

‘Spirit stones?’ Vekkman looked at the little pile of shimmering objects that had just clattered onto the polished steel surface of the conference table in the Adeptus Arbites office, where, exactly as Fulcher had intimated, he’d set up shop alongside Osric and his staff. ‘An interesting collection of gewgaws, but I don’t see what they have to do with the matter at hand.’

He picked one up, gingerly, staring at the pattern of lights rippling across its surface. Amberley and I glanced at one another in mutual surprise. I’d pictured a number of possible reactions from him during our long and relatively uneventful[147] trudge up from the depths of the underhive, but apparently genuine bemusement hadn’t been among them.

‘In that case,’ I said, already sure of the answer, but determined to go through with it because somebody had to, ‘why did you order the planetary defence force to collect as many as they could?’

This time there was no mistaking his astonishment. His eyebrows rose, and the spirit stone in his hand abruptly joined the others with an emphatic and resonant clunk! ‘I did no such thing. What would be the point?’

‘Precisely what we were asking ourselves,’ Amberley said dryly.

The conference room was small as such things went, and her voice carried easily across it. There were no external windows, which suited our requirement for privacy, and precious little furnishing beyond the table, the chairs around it and the inevitable aquila symbol of the Adeptus Arbites – which in this case bore a pair of scales heavily tilted in the direction of fealty to the Emperor in one talon, and a gout of flame in the other – dominating the wall. Pelton and Jurgen stood either side of the firmly closed door, bolt pistol and lasgun in hand respectively, ensuring our discussion remained uninterrupted. At least that was what we were pretending; Amberley still didn’t trust her Ordo Malleus colleague any further than she could drop kick a Titan, and I didn’t trust anybody apart from my aide, whose pervasive aroma was beginning to seep over to our side of the room, a reassuring olfactory presence. More specifically, given that most of the inquisitors I’d encountered apart from Amberley had been nuttier than a caba plantation, if I was going to be stuck with one in a room that had only one exit I’d be a lot happier knowing that Jurgen was standing beside it with a gun in his hands.

Vekkman shrugged. ‘If someone’s stockpiling them, they must have a reason. But it isn’t me, and I doubt very much that it’s Osric. You say the defence force troopers are collecting these things?’

‘That’s what the people we spoke to said,’ I confirmed, and Vekkman nodded brusquely.

‘Then I suggest you direct your enquiries to General Porten,’ he said. ‘Although what tactical reason he might have for accumulating these things, I can’t imagine.’

‘Ciaphas?’ Amberley asked, and I shook my head.

‘None that I can see,’ I admitted. Then, for courtesy’s sake more than anything, I turned back to Vekkman. ‘I hope your heretic hunt’s having better results.’

‘Making slow progress,’ he replied, with a barely suppressed air of frustration. ‘I’ve narrowed down the orbitals the cult might be active on, but until the xenos are dealt with pursuing my enquiries there would be difficult, to say the least.’

‘Quite,’ I said, as sympathetically as I could. By this point the war in space had become something of a stalemate. The larger orbitals were big enough to soak up an immense amount of damage and well enough armed to make the eldar think twice about coming within weapons range to invest them, as the risk of their ships taking enough of a pounding in the process to degrade their combat effectiveness was still great enough to be worth avoiding, while the system defence force had practically nothing left capable of challenging them. The upshot of which was that the eldar fighters and the Ironfound Defence Force air corps were fighting a grim war of attrition in the upper atmosphere – meanwhile, the risk of being caught in the crossfire, or downed by an eldar pilot with nothing better to shoot at, was keeping civilian traffic grounded.

After which there was little more to say, so, after a few conventional pleasantries, Amberley and I took our leave, even more perplexed than when we’d arrived.

Porten greeted us with a similar air of bemusement, exacerbated by an evident lack of sleep, which recaff and stimms had only been able to redress up to a point.

‘I’ve never seen one of these things before in my life,’ he said, turning the spirit stone Amberley had handed to him over and over in his hand, as though it might make sense if he could just see it from the right angle. ‘Quite pretty, though. Might need to get one for the wife.’ He yawned, in a jaw-cracking manner, which made his luxuriant moustache resemble nothing so much as a sump rat darting for the safety of its hole. ‘If she even remembers what I look like these days.’ He blinked, like something emerging from hibernation, and handed the glowing stone back to Amberley. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a briefing to give. Or listen to. One or the other.’

‘Get some sleep,’ I said. ‘For the good of the Emperor, we must all keep ourselves at peak fighting efficiency.’ Which was the sort of thing I was supposed to say, of course, but that didn’t make it any the less true. Porten had turned out to be pretty good at the job of defending the planet, or this particular corner of it at least, and his loss would undoubtedly put a crimp in the operational efficiency of the Ironfound Defence Force. So far, the invaders from the sump were stalled downhive of the gates, while their counterparts from space had only succeeded in breaching the upper part of the hive a handful of times, being beaten back successfully on each occasion. No doubt he had subordinates with a reasonable amount of tactical acumen, but Porten possessed the rare ability to hold both the detail and the bigger picture in mind which marks out an exceptional leader on the battlefield. Zyvan had it, and Macharius had it, according to my tutors at the schola progenium, but precious few others do.[148]

‘Maybe you’re right,’ Porten said, meaning he’d ignore the advice until it was almost too late, or was ordered to listen to it by a medicae.

Amberley, however, wasn’t to be deflected. ‘Then why are your troopers collecting them from the battlefield?’ she asked, with some asperity. ‘The ones we spoke to were adamant that they’d been ordered to gather them up.’

‘Not by me,’ Porten said, no doubt too exhausted to reflect that getting stroppy with an inquisitor wasn’t the wisest thing to be doing. He yawned again. ‘I’ll get some of my staff on it, find out where the instruction came from.’

‘That would be very helpful,’ Amberley said, sliding off the desk on which she’d been perching while we spoke. Porten’s office wasn’t large, especially with Jurgen and Pelton looming by the door, and floor space had been at a premium. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Porten said, with rather more evident sarcasm than I suspected he intended. ‘Good luck with your enquiries.’

Amberley smiled, in the manner I’d learned to be wary of. ‘I don’t need luck,’ she said evenly. ‘But the people I investigate do.’

Despite which fine sentiments, we found ourselves in a sober mood as we reconvened in the villa Amberley had rented near the top of the spire soon after her arrival on Ironfound, which was just as opulent as I would have expected given her usual cover identity.

‘Somebody’s lying,’ Zemelda said, sprawling on a couch and stuffing palovine pastries into her mouth with her functioning hand. The other arm, now professionally trussed up by a medicae, was pretty much immobilised by bandages and a sling, but it seemed her mouth was still functioning normally at any rate.

‘Somebody’s always lying,’ Pelton said, which I suppose, given his current and former occupations, was a reasonable assumption to make. ‘The question is, who? Vekkman or Porten?’

‘Maybe neither,’ I said, turning in response to a familiar odour, and gratefully accepting a steaming bowl of tanna from my aide. ‘Whoever sent that assassin after me must have had some access to the governor’s household. Maybe even a position in it where they can pull rank on the Ironfound Defence Force. Perhaps it’s time we checked in with Defroy about how his enquiries are going.’

‘Good point,’ Amberley agreed, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Flicker, go and chase him up. Try not to scare him any more than you need to.’

‘Right.’ Pelton nodded, and adjusted the fall of his jacket to make the bulge of his holstered bolt pistol a little more visible. ‘I’ll have a word with Clarys while I’m at it, too. The local plodders might have dug something up as well, even if they don’t recognise its significance.’

‘Have fun.’ Yanbel looked up as the former arbitrator left the room, then returned his attention to the spirit stone still clasped in his mechadendrite. He’d spent the last half hour or so poking and prodding at it with a variety of things that buzzed, hummed and beeped, with every sign of enjoyment, in so far as a tech-priest would ever admit to experiencing so human a sensation.[149] Every now and then he peered at it closely, although what he expected to see eluded me.[150] After a while he dropped it among the others Mott had collected from the dead scavvies, with something approaching a shrug. ‘Can’t tell a thing from it, sorry. Or any of the others. But if it’s any help, they all seem to be identical to the one the heretech smugglers had.’

‘Heretech smugglers?’ I asked, intrigued. I’d gathered that Amberley had been led to the webway portal in the underhive in the first place by an investigation of some kind, but she hadn’t mentioned any of the details, and I hadn’t bothered to ask, on the entirely reasonable grounds that if she’d wanted me to know she would have told me. That and the fact that we’d been rather busy at the time, what with all the eldar, daemons and heretics trying to kill us.

Zemelda nodded, spraying a few previously overlooked crumbs as she spoke. ‘Small-time dishrags dealing t’au toys to the chinless,’ she said disparagingly, which I interpreted as a relatively insignificant operation[151] supplying a few xenos trinkets to the local aristocracy, a few of whom would always place novelty above common sense and the preservation of their souls.

‘Which we rolled up quite easily,’ Amberley said. ‘The real surprise was finding a spirit stone among the Imperial artefacts going the other way.’

I felt my brows knitting themselves into a puzzled frown. ‘Why would the t’au want an eldar spirit stone?’

Amberley shrugged. ‘Why wouldn’t they? They collect all kinds of stuff from other races. Even the orks, who don’t have anything worth taking in the first place.’

‘They may not have known what it was,’ Yanbel reminded her. ‘The smugglers didn’t.’

‘Fair point,’ Amberley agreed. ‘But that doesn’t mean the buyer was equally ignorant.’

‘And the buyer was?’ I asked, to show I was paying attention. Probably a t’au, or one of their client races, and thus well out of reach of the retribution they deserved,[152] but in my experience a polite show of interest always went down well when an attractive woman was showing off her intellectual superiority, and occasionally paid dividends.

‘Somewhere out-system,’ Zemelda said, a trifle indistinctly, clearing the last of her plate. She flinched slightly as Jurgen materialised at her shoulder and took it from her, disappearing in the general direction of the kitchen, and everyone’s breathing became a little deeper.

Yanbel nodded. ‘We never got the chance to follow that up,’ he said. ‘It seemed more important to find out where it came from.’

‘Good call,’ I said feelingly, and Amberley nodded, looking a trifle smug.

‘Which took us through the webway to Drechia,’ she finished. ‘And the rest you know.’ At least as much of the rest as she felt like telling me.

I nodded. ‘Sounds like the trail’s cold anyway,’ I said. ‘Whatever ship the stone should have left on will be long gone by now.’

‘The Eternal Faith, outbound for Gravalax,’ Mott said, wandering into the room with a mug of recaff, his eyes unfocusing for a moment as he accessed the memory. ‘Docked at Skyside Seventeen, third largest of the orbital docks, population seventeen million two hundred and thirty-eight thousand, external docking facilities for four thousand three hundred and two interstellar vessels, of which an average of eighty-five per cent are occupied at any one time, each served by shuttle pads and hangar bays with a combined capacity of–’

‘So it’s big,’ Zemelda said, getting to the point a little more quickly than the savant.

‘Very much so,’ Mott agreed, apparently unperturbed at being cut off so unceremoniously.

‘The orbital docks,’ I said slowly. ‘Wasn’t that where Vekkman said the Slaaneshi cult was most active?’

‘He did.’ Amberley nodded thoughtfully, apparently reaching the same conclusion that I had. ‘Perhaps the spirit stone wasn’t going all the way to Gravalax after all.’

Mott sipped at his recaff. ‘Skyside Seventeen was one of the orbital facilities on Inquisitor Vekkman’s list of possible centres of cult activity,’ he said. ‘Making it considerably more likely that our investigations are linked after all.’

‘Perhaps they are,’ Amberley admitted, somewhat grudgingly. ‘I suppose we should talk to him again, then.’

‘And Jurgen and I should rejoin our regiment,’ I said, with a little more reluctance than I’d allowed for. Hunting for heretic cults has never been a favourite occupation of mine, and going after this one would mean running the gauntlet of the eldar currently infesting the upper atmosphere to boot. All in all, I’d be better off in the command centre, dispensing morale-boosting platitudes and keeping as far away from the fighting as I could. On the other hand, leaving Amberley and her team to it while I beat an expeditious retreat would deprive me of her company, and the knowledge of whatever threat the heretics presented. The eldar I’d pretty much got the measure of by this time, and as I’ve often observed, it’s what you don’t know that’s liable to kill you.

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ Amberley said, which pretty much decided the matter. I’ve never been able to refuse her anything, which may well have been true even if she hadn’t been entitled to have anyone who sufficiently annoyed her recycled for servitor components. What she really meant, of course, was that she didn’t want to lose Jurgen, whose unique talent would come in extremely handy if the heretics turned out to have a rogue psyker or two among them, something depressingly common where Chaos cults are concerned. And something I’d positively have welcomed, if I’d known how things were actually going to turn out.

‘At your service, as always,’ I said, as gallantly as I could, and probably not fooling anyone for a moment, least of all Amberley. I tapped my vox-bead. ‘Regina,’ I began, ‘it looks like I won’t be rejoining you for a while…’

Twenty

Say what you like about the Inquisition – and plenty has certainly been said over the years[153] – they can certainly get things done. Within a couple of hours I found myself standing in one of the hangar bays on the highest level of the spire, poised between Fulcher’s mansion below and the not-quite vacuum of near space above (and to the sides if you’re going to be pedantic about it). We were in one of the larger commercial bays, although only three of the spaces marked on the floor (and partially obscured by scorch marks) were occupied: one by a shuttle the size of a drop-ship,[154] and two of the others by much smaller craft, which looked all the tinier for being loomed over by their titanic neighbour. One I’d seen a few times before, its sleek hull bearing the crest of the noble house Amberley’s favourite cover identity ostensibly belonged to, and effectively concealing the impressive array of lethal weaponry it carried. The other was an Aquila, as nondescript as most of its kind, apart from the holes in its hull to which a covey of cogboys were tending. Sparks were sputtering somewhere below the rents in its outer plating, which, combined with the number of fluids leaking from it, inclined me to remain as far away from the crippled vessel as possible.

‘Something gave that a pasting,’ Jurgen remarked, his usual aroma even more marked than usual, a sure sign that he was contemplating our imminent flight with the amount of enthusiasm he normally displayed for taking to the air. For once I was inclined to agree with him, the tight knot of tension forming in the pit of my stomach giving an extra twist as I tried not to picture the weapons which had made such a mess of the Aquila being turned in the direction of Amberley’s gig.

‘Our ship’s a lot tougher than that,’ Amberley said, with a faintly amused glance in my direction, no doubt divining the tenor of my thoughts.

‘Ready whenever you are, milady,’ the familiar voice of her personal shuttle pilot echoed through the vox-receiver in my ear, and Amberley nodded, with a hint of impatience.

‘We’ll be boarding any time now, Pontius. Just waiting for Flicker.’

‘Be right with you,’ Pelton’s voice cut in, right on cue. ‘Just coming into the hangar.’

‘Finally,’ Zemelda added, though not over the link – noticeably more testy since the analgesics had begun to wear off.

I turned towards the personnel door by which we’d entered the echoing vault of the cargo bay, intended for the use of crews and the occasional passenger, only to find nobody there apart from the demi-squad[155] of blue-and-gold-clad household guards slouching around trying to look as if they knew which end of their hellguns to point forwards. Their presence had come as no surprise this close to the gubernatorial mansion; indeed, I’d have been astonished if they hadn’t been there, although what use so few of them would have been against an eldar attempt to invest the summit of the spire was beyond me. Hold the xenos off for the handful of seconds it would take them to die in the attempt, probably, while Fulcher was whisked off to safety somewhere.

‘He’s over there,’ Rakel said, pointing, from the other side of our group, about as far away from Jurgen as she could get while still remaining in earshot. Since this was uncharacteristically short, pertinent and unburdened with peculiar metaphor – not to mention delivered in a voice which could strip the enamel from your teeth – I found myself turning in the direction she’d indicated. Somewhere in the middle distance a convoy of battered utility trucks was entering the hangar bay and rumbling towards the heavy cargo shuttle squatting on its pad.

‘Can you sense his presence?’ I asked, feeling faintly uncomfortable at the idea.

Rakel stared scornfully at me. ‘I’ve got eyes,’ she said. ‘And he’s waving.’

‘Second truck, sir,’ Jurgen added helpfully, and I squinted in the direction of the oncoming vehicles, finally spotting a civilian in the cab of the one he’d indicated. Everyone else in the convoy seemed to be wearing the blue-and-gold uniforms of Fulcher’s gubernatorial troops, and I must confess I felt a momentary panic at that sudden realisation, wondering if the eldar were about to breach the spire and these were hastily despatched reinforcements for the token guards I’d noticed before. A second or so later, though, reason reasserted itself and assured me that Kasteen or Broklaw would have voxed a warning long before the eldar got within striking distance of where we stood.

‘That’s a lot of cargo,’ Yanbel remarked, before returning his attention to the trio of heavy servitors trudging towards Amberley’s garish passenger shuttle laden with boxes and crates, stuffed with Throne knew what. Most of it, I strongly suspected, would turn out to be lethal, or otherwise useful in the hunting of heretics. The largest one – twice the size of the others and festooned with prayer slips hoping to attract the favourable attention of the Machine-God – I was certain contained Amberley’s precious suit of power armour, and felt considerably relieved that she would be taking it with us. Not quite as relieved as I would have been to have seen her wearing it, as there’s precious little in the confidence-boosting stakes to compare with a well-nigh invulnerable Valkyrie blazing away with a storm bolter standing between you and harm’s way, but under the circumstances I’d take what I could get.

‘Yes, it is,’ Amberley said thoughtfully, and tapped her comm-bead. ‘Flicker. What’s in those trucks?’

‘Relief supplies,’ Pelton’s voice replied, and her eyebrows rose a fraction, in carefully modulated surprise. ‘I interrupted a briefing at the mansion when I went to talk to Defroy. The orbitals only have limited food reserves, so the governor’s ordered supply runs to supplement the rationing.’

‘A token effort, with the maintenance of civilian morale as its primary objective, I strongly suspect,’ Mott put in, ‘given that, even fully laden, it would require several thousand flights of a vessel that size a day to keep a population of seventeen million adequately fed, not to mention that the attrition rate from enemy action would–’

‘You might very well think that,’ Pelton said dryly, ‘but I couldn’t possibly comment.’

‘Sounds about right to me,’ I said. The population of the orbitals was just a drop in the bucket[156] compared to the thirty billion or so distributed around the hives on the surface, but the role they played in Ironfound society was of an importance out of all proportion to their limited numbers. If I were Fulcher I’d be just as eager as he seemed to be to make sure no lingering sense of grievance at being abandoned by the surface dwellers was left behind once the war was over, as that sort of thing can snowball terrifyingly quickly, especially when the grudge is being held by people with their hands wrapped around your economic jugular. The last thing the Astra Militarum needed was to see off the eldar, only to be called back here in a decade or two to put down a popular uprising aboard the orbitals. ‘But it’s a much bigger target than the gig,’ I continued. ‘If we lift at the same time, with any luck it’ll attract enough of the eldar’s attention for us to sneak through while they’re otherwise occupied.’

‘A sound suggestion,’ Mott concurred, ‘which would raise the probability of us reaching the orbital unscathed to almost eight point seven per cent.’

‘Great,’ I said, wondering if it was too late to develop an unfortunate case of something mild but sufficiently debilitating to require being left behind on the ground, but by now that really wasn’t an option. Not if I wanted to maintain my fraudulent reputation, not to mention avoid the inevitable unpleasantness which would ensue if I disappointed Amberley. ‘I feel better already.’

Mott nodded. ‘Whereas,’ he continued, ‘if we remain in the centre of the group, and its fighter escort, the probability rises to something on the order of forty-eight per cent.’

‘Really?’ I said, unable to keep a soupçon of astonished surprise from inflecting my voice, despite my best efforts. I’d faced far worse odds than that and lived to tell the tale,[157] and felt a momentary surge of something dangerously close to optimism before I belatedly registered the rest of his comment. ‘What group and fighter escort?’

‘The other freighters making for the orbitals,’ Pelton said, strolling up to us with Defroy trotting a little anxiously at his heels. ‘There are about thirty leaving the hive for Skyside Seventeen at the same time. And General Porten’s found a squadron of Lightnings to provide a bit of cover.’

‘Then we’ll definitely take advantage of it,’ Amberley said, decisively. She tapped her comm-bead again. ‘Pontius, slight change of plan. We’re waiting–’ she glanced expectantly at Defroy, who, fortunately, grasped the situation at once.

‘They should finish loading in around twenty minutes,’ he said, sweating only about as much as people usually did when they were being noticed by an inquisitor. ‘This is the last load, and all they need to do is drive into the hold and secure the trucks–’

Amberley cut him off with a nod, and returned her attention to her vox-bead. ‘–no more than twenty minutes.’ Overhearing, Defroy began to look a little panicky. I certainly wasn’t going to envy the troopers under his command for the next quarter of an hour or so, that was for sure. ‘There’s a relief convoy heading in the same direction as us, so we might as well use it for cover.’

‘As you wish, milady,’ the pilot acknowledged, sounding a little disappointed at the prospect of having to make far fewer evasive manoeuvres than he’d been expecting. I didn’t know Pontius all that well, having met him on only a few occasions, and most of those as a disembodied voice from the flight deck, but I’d been aboard things he’d been flying often enough to know that his approach to piloting wasn’t that far removed from Jurgen’s approach to driving. Amberley seemed to have acquired his services in much the same haphazard fashion as the rest of her entourage (among which I included Jurgen and myself, at least in this context) – apparently from the Navy where, I gathered, he’d been something of a fighter ace, and still relished the chance to match reflexes with an enemy pilot whenever possible.[158]

‘I’m surprised to find you supervising a job like this in person,’ I remarked conversationally, trying to put Defroy as much at his ease as possible. Being around Amberley tended to rattle people, and rattled people make mistakes. Something I’m never keen on when I’m liable to be getting shot at soon, and other people’s mistakes could impede my ability to get out of harm’s way.

Defroy shrugged. ‘The governor likes people to notice who they’re supposed to be grateful to,’ he said. ‘Besides, the shipment will have to be guarded at the other end, and the planetary defence force have their hands full at the moment.’

‘That they do,’ I agreed, having seen as much for myself all too recently.

Defroy shot me an appraising look. ‘I must admit, I’m surprised to find you here too, commissar. Don’t you have a firing squad or something to organise back at your regiment?’

My smile became a little more fixed. ‘I have a great many duties to my regiment,’ I said carefully. ‘One of which is liaising with other Imperial authorities when required.’

‘Wazzock,’ Zemelda muttered, not quite under her breath, as he trotted away to give his underlings a hard time.

‘And speaking of those…’ Pelton said, with a nod in the direction of the personnel door. A familiar figure was strolling towards us, a battered valise dangling from one hand, his brown robe fluttering in the currents from the air recirculators. Catching sight of Defroy he turned aside a little, putting a plodding servitor laden with cargo between the two of them, and remaining in its lee until he arrived at the landing pad.

‘What do you want?’ Amberley greeted him, and Vekkman nodded perfunctorily in response.

‘I need a lift,’ he said. ‘I gather you’re heading for one of the orbitals?’ No one bothered asking how he’d gathered it; he was an inquisitor after all.

‘Skyside Seventeen,’ Amberley confirmed after a moment.

‘Good,’ Vekkman said. ‘That’s the one with the highest probability of a Chaos cult being active among the dock workers.’

‘Then I suppose you’d better come along,’ Amberley conceded, in a faintly grudging tone.

‘Much obliged,’ Vekkman said, purely for form’s sake, and held out his travelling bag. ‘Can one of your people take this for me?’

‘No, they can’t,’ Amberley said, and turned away to confer with Mott in a muttered undertone.

‘Is she always like this?’ Vekkman asked, and I shook my head.

‘She’s a bit stressed at the moment,’ I answered without thinking.

‘I was right then,’ Vekkman said. ‘You are one of hers.’

‘I’m a commissar,’ I said, keeping my face straight and my voice steady, ‘with an Imperial Guard regiment to look after.’

‘And a number of highly classified absences in your record,’ Vekkman persisted. ‘Several of them while Inquisitor Vail was in the vicinity.’

‘Pure coincidence,’ I said.

Vekkman nodded, as though he’d expected nothing less. ‘So easy to keep bumping into people in something as small as a galaxy,’ he said sarcastically.

‘Like I said,’ I repeated, ‘pure coincidence.’

‘If you believe in that sort of thing,’ Vekkman said, ‘which, personally, I don’t.’

I felt the palms of my hands begin to itch, which is never a good sign. The thing is, I do believe in coincidence; the damn thing’s saved my life on more occasions than I can count. Perhaps because of that, though, I tend to discount it more readily than most as well. One of the great gifts of paranoia is being able to discern links between things, the patterns emerging around them, even if they aren’t actually there. But I was beginning to suspect that Vekkman and Amberley really were tugging on opposite ends of the same thread, even if she was reluctant to admit to the possibility.

‘Can you think of any reason Slaaneshi cultists would want to collect eldar spirit stones?’ I asked, keeping my voice low, as I was sure this was a conversation Amberley most definitely wouldn’t approve of.

Vekkman looked thoughtful. ‘As I told your patron–’ he began.

‘She’s not my patron,’ I said, decisively. ‘I’m simply here to observe on behalf of the Astra Militarum, and render any assistance required.’

Vekkman looked at me with manifest scepticism. ‘As I told your liaisee, xenos artefacts are her area of expertise, not mine.’

‘The first one we intercepted was routed out-system,’ Pelton interjected, having listened in to at least part of our conversation, probably to make sure I didn’t let anything slip that Amberley would disapprove of. ‘But the cargo would have been transhipped on Skyside Seventeen. And if your Chaos cult is centred on the docking areas…’

‘A heretic stevedore could easily have got his hands on it,’ Vekkman agreed, ‘with Throne alone knows what dire results. We’re fortunate that your team intercepted it.’

‘They intercepted that one, at least,’ I said, making the point that I hadn’t been there, and thereby attempting to distance myself from Amberley’s retinue, at least in his mind. Not that I thought he’d fall for it; he seemed far too astute for that.

‘And you’re sure that was the only one?’ Vekkman asked.

Pelton nodded. ‘As sure as we can be,’ he said, meaning ‘of course we’re not,’ which, again, I was sure would come as no surprise to the brown-robed inquisitor.

‘Then let’s hope it was,’ Vekkman said.

An uneasy silence fell, only to be interrupted by a faintly anxious voice in my vox-bead.

‘We’re ready to lift, now, inquisitor,’ Defroy said, his tiny figure waving from the boarding ramp of the heavy shuttle.

‘About time,’ Amberley said, although we were still well within the twenty minutes he’d promised. ‘Everyone aboard.’

‘Ladies first,’ Vekkman said, gesturing her ahead of him with a slight bow.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Amberley said, repeating the gesture with a little more emphasis, and speaking through faintly gritted teeth. ‘You’re my guest.’

‘If you insist,’ Vekkman said, and strode through the airlock, while Amberley fell in next to me.

‘Oh, I do,’ she said, before lowering her voice. ‘If he thinks I’m turning my back on him for a second, he’s got another think coming.’

‘We’ll watch it for you,’ I promised, while Rakel scuttled up the ramp, eyeing Jurgen with even more evident distaste than most people did.[159] Pelton, Mott and Zemelda followed, the tech-priest having boarded several minutes before in the wake of the laden servitors, leaving Amberley, Jurgen and me to bring up the rear.

‘They’ll be having a few words with their sergeant,’ Jurgen remarked as we turned towards the boarding ramp. The troopers who’d been guarding the personnel entrance were double timing it towards the massive cargo lifter, Defroy urging them on as its engines began to fire up, deafening everyone in the vicinity.

I nodded. ‘Must be rookies,’ I said, or, rather, bellowed in his general direction. Normally a group of soldiers running fall into a natural rhythm, in sync with one another, but these were all over the place, arms and legs windmilling as they lurched across the floor. I’d never seen anything so ill-coordinated outside a boot camp, and seldom then; even the irregulars I’d fought with on occasion had managed to show more martial aptitude.

‘If that’s the best of what’s left defending the upper levels, then the Emperor help us all,’ Amberley said, as the hatch thunked closed behind us, cutting off the noise from outside and sealing us in with Jurgen’s halitosis.

I nodded soberly. ‘Let’s hope he’s not too busy, then,’ I said, as the engines began to vibrate the deck plates and the gig rose incrementally into the air, eliciting a faint – and hastily suppressed – groan from my aide. ‘Because I think we’re going to need all the help we can get.’

Twenty-one

I lost no time in settling myself into one of the excessively padded seats in the gig’s passenger compartment which, as I’d expected, had been fitted out with as much of an eye to comfort and the ostentation expected of an aristocrat as to utility. The floor was carpeted with a deep, springy pile, which I suspected would never be the same after the passage of Jurgen’s boots across it, and the walls panelled in some glossy wood with a distinctive close grain which I immediately failed to identify. Cabinets of the same material, containing refreshments and all the other small necessities of life,[160] were scattered about the place, and small tables were strewn between the seats.

From habit I seated myself as close to the door leading to the flight deck as possible, although I was sure Pontius would have no need of my intervention in a crisis, only realising as I fastened the crash harness that this had put me in the chair next to Vekkman.

‘I’d get strapped in if I were you,’ I said. ‘This is liable to get rough.’

‘Ship’s gig Fictus Primus requesting permission to depart,’ Pontius’ voice echoed in my vox-bead, and glancing through the armourcrys viewport I could see the huge struts and buttresses of the hangar bay drifting past as he nudged the utility craft towards the vast portal sealing us off from the outside lack of atmosphere. Faint wisps of vapour indicated that the chamber was already depressurising,[161] and the tiny vessel rocked a little as he compensated for the hurricane-force air currents being created by the pumps. Most of the cogboys I’d seen before continued to work on the crippled Aquila, apparently indifferent to either the departure of the other vessels or the removal of most of their oxygen; no doubt their augmetic enhancements put them above such mundane considerations. ‘Taking up formation with the Avis Tonitrus Duo,’ which I presumed was the heavy freighter lumbering towards the portal ahead of us.

‘Permission granted, Fictus Primus,’ the woman on the other end of the vox-link responded, with the faintly detached intonation of someone who repeated the same stock phrase a hundred times a day, before adding ‘Emperor be with you,’ as though she expected us to really need His help.

‘I’ll stick as close to the freighter as I can,’ Pontius told Amberley on an internal channel, and she nodded faintly in approval.

‘Good idea.’

‘What is?’ Vekkman asked, and she shrugged in a manner calculated to get under the skin of an anchorite.

‘Nothing of any significance. Just a status update.’

‘Of course.’ Either willing to take her word for it, or unwilling to give her the satisfaction of pressing unsuccessfully for an answer, Vekkman buckled his crash harness. Everyone else had already taken that particular precaution by now, having flown with Pontius before, and I felt my mouth becoming a little dryer as we passed through the thick bronze doors and the clean, white light of the upper atmosphere punched me in the eyes.

After a moment Pontius moved us into the shadow of the huge heavy lifter, within a score of metres of the slab-like hull, and my vision began to clear, although the air around me was growing noticeably thicker.

‘Is that safe, do you think, sir?’ Jurgen asked, looking a slightly lighter shade of grime than usual, and clasping the stock of his melta so hard that I half expected to see deformations in the metal beneath his fingers.

‘Pontius knows what he’s doing,’ I said, as reassuringly as I could without actually saying yes. Safety out here was a relative thing, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t about to bump into our colossal neighbour by accident. On the other hand I was still faintly surprised not to have been jumped by a swarm of eldar fighters or a squadron of Vypers the moment we’d cleared the hangar bay. I shouldn’t have been, of course; the hangars and docking ports all over the hive were well protected by overlapping defensive batteries and patrolling fighter planes, which accounted for the trouble the spaceborne invaders had had so far in establishing a foothold. The really hard part would come once we were negotiating the nebulous zone between the last wisps of atmosphere and the vacuum of space itself.

I glanced out of the viewport. Other shuttles were rising from landing platforms lower down the spire, or emerging from the layer of murk which hid the majority of the hive, spinning upwards like sparks from a forge to join us. Gradually they began to reach our height, taking up formation around us, leaving our gig[162] at the centre of a loose swarm of cargo vessels. Some were as large as the one we accompanied, others a good deal smaller, but they all rose with the same grim determination. There seemed to be some activity going on around the nearest of the distant spires too, sunlight glinting on flecks of metal swarming about it, although I couldn’t make out anything more from this far away. Impelled by what was little more than idle curiosity – although under the circumstances anything which took my mind off the imminent prospect of being shot out of the sky had to have something going for it – I retuned my comm-bead.

‘Ciaphas.’ Kasteen’s voice had a distinct undertone of concern, which I suppose was quite flattering really. ‘Where are you?’

‘In one of the shuttles delivering aid to the orbitals,’ I said, more or less truthfully. An Inquisitorial warband was aid of a sort, I supposed, even if it wasn’t the kind the Skysiders were expecting.

‘Of course you are,’ Kasteen said, a trace of amused exasperation entering her voice. ‘Not nearly enough eldar down here to keep you occupied.’

‘I thought I ought to leave you enough not to get bored,’ I said, matching her bantering tone.

‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ Kasteen sighed. ‘The eldar are moving up hive faster than we expected. The planetary defence force is pulling back above the minefields, which ought to contain them for a while, but the levels just above the gates are being swamped with refugees from the underhive.’ There was a short pause, during which a faint voice which sounded like Broklaw said something I couldn’t quite catch, then she spoke again. ‘Oh, right, nearly forgot. You’ve had a message from General Porten, eyes only. Turned up in the despatch pouch[163] a few minutes ago. Do you want me to hang on to it until you get back,’ meaning ‘if you get back,’ although she was too tactful to say so, ‘or just send it down to your quarters?’

‘Read it to me,’ I said. If this was a clue to whoever was pulling the heretics’ strings, it couldn’t wait.

To her credit, Kasteen didn’t waste time pointing out that technically this was information she shouldn’t be privy to; we’d been through enough together by this time for me to take her discretion for granted. There was another short pause while she slit the envelope, then her voice returned, tinged this time by puzzlement. ‘It just says “the governor’s office”. Does that make any sense to you?’

‘I’m afraid it does,’ I said, although it had hardly come as a surprise. I was already as certain as I could be that someone from Fulcher’s household had arranged my attempted assassination, so it had been odds-on that the order to collect the spirit stones had come from the same source. But the confirmation that the two inquisitors were indeed investigating the same conspiracy was still troubling. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything more? Like a name, perhaps?’

‘No, that’s it.’ Kasteen hesitated. ‘Is this something I should be worried about?’

‘No,’ I assured her, hoping it was true. ‘The eldar are more than enough to be going on with.’

‘You’re not wrong there,’ Kasteen agreed. ‘Is there anything you actually wanted, or did you just check in again to let us know you’re not dead yet?’

‘Bit of both,’ I said. ‘I can see what looks like aerial activity over Quartzvein. Are the other hives under attack now?’ Hardly likely, of course, as that would run counter to everything we’d deduced so far about the eldar strategy, but if it was true it would relieve the pressure on us immeasurably, and I couldn’t help indulging in a short bout of wishful thinking.

‘That’ll be their relief flight assembling,’ Kasteen said. ‘All the hives are launching at once, for different orbitals. Porten’s hoping the eldar will have to spread themselves thinner to intercept them all, so more of the shuttles will get through.’

‘Makes sense to me,’ I conceded, and cut the link.

‘And me,’ Mott said, which was my first clue that Amberley and her people had been listening in on the entire conversation – which, I must confess, hardly came as a surprise. ‘Given the estimated number of aerial assets at the enemy’s disposal, and assuming a roughly similar composition to all the relief flights, the probability of any one vessel reaching its destination unscathed rises to a little over fifty-two point four seven per cent.’

‘Which works for me,’ I said, trying not to get too carried away. This wasn’t going to be a milk run by any means, however much the odds were beginning to tilt in our favour, and the image of the crippled Aquila we’d so recently shared a hangar with rose up with disconcerting rapidity in my mind’s eye.

‘What did Defroy say?’ Amberley asked, turning to Pelton, apparently reminded of his recent errand by the contents of the despatch Kasteen had just read. ‘Any progress in finding out who tried to have Ciaphas murdered?’

Pelton shook his head. ‘None to speak of. He’s been reviewing security of the governor’s household as a matter of urgency, but his main priority is plugging the loophole the assassin used in case someone takes advantage of it again and has a crack at Fulcher.’

‘Fair enough,’ I conceded. ‘But if an agent of a Chaos cult can just stroll in, kill one of the household servants, and impersonate them to try and assassinate a guest, why is he even bothering to try and secure the place? I’d have the governor out of there first, and worry about security breaches afterwards.’

‘Fair point,’ Amberley agreed, raising her voice a little over the increasing volume of our engines. The horizon beyond the viewport tilted, in a manner which elicited a barely suppressed groan from my aide, and we began to climb, still keeping station with the lumbering freighter in whose shadow we were hiding. ‘But I imagine that’s not really an option with the eldar investing the planet. Where’s he going to go?’

‘And it doesn’t look good with the hoipolloi,’ Zemelda added, ‘bailing and leaving ’em to twist.’

‘Indeed it doesn’t,’ Vekkman agreed, unexpectedly disentangling her meaning with even less thought than I required. ‘The general populace needs to know the governor is standing shoulder to shoulder with them in this sort of crisis. Otherwise your friend the colonel will be hip-deep in rioters before she can blink.’ So, he’d been eavesdropping too. No surprise there.

‘I hate to bring up the obvious,’ Yanbel said, ‘but if there’s a traitor among the governor’s household, able to exploit a security breach no one else even realised was there, Defroy’s your most likely suspect.’

Pelton nodded. ‘Except he’s been liaising with Clarys every step of the investigation. If he was trying to cover something up, he’d be keeping her at arm’s length.’

‘Unless they’re in it together,’ I suggested. After all, cults generally require more than one member, although some of the Khornate ones suffer an eye-watering rate of attrition.

Pelton shook his head. ‘Not seeing it. She’s a plodder, but she gets things done. They managed to recover the air car, and what was left of the driver.’ Which wasn’t liable to be much after a fall of several kilometres. ‘The local shrine of the Omnissiah were able to perform the rituals for a successful genetic match. Your assassin turns out to have been a local ganger, with no links to the governor’s household.’

‘Gangs have been known to front for heretic cults before now,’ Vekkman said. ‘Round them all up for questioning.’

‘Already done,’ Pelton told him. ‘As I said, Clarys gets results. Even if they’re disappointing.’

‘No heretical tendencies among the gangers, then,’ I said.

‘None, according to the interrogators,’ Pelton confirmed. ‘It seems to have been a simple hit for hire.’

‘Let me guess,’ Zemelda said. ‘None of them know who paid.’

‘You guess right,’ Pelton agreed. ‘They all swear on the aquila that the only one who knew was the trigger man, and since he’s just a stain now, he’s not telling.’

‘Have them turned over to our own interrogators,’ Amberley said. ‘They’re probably not lying, but if any are we’ll get to the truth a lot faster than the Beetles.’ She glanced at Vekkman, already taking his acquiescence for granted. ‘If that’s all right with you, of course.’

‘By all means,’ the Malleus inquisitor agreed. He glanced at Rakel, who was slumped in her chair, eyes glazed, muttering to herself. ‘I don’t suppose your psyker could just lift the information we need from what passes for their minds, could she?’

‘No,’ Amberley said shortly. ‘It doesn’t work like that. Not for her, anyway.’

After that there was no more time for idle conversation, because the eldar attacked, and everyone was too busy trying not to become reacquainted with their breakfasts to continue with it.

Editorial Note:

As Cain – quite understandably under the circumstances – is quite sparing in his account of how the blockade was run, the following extract may go some way towards filling in the gap.

From The Eldar: a History of Their Presence in the Ultima Segmentum, and Some Musings Upon Possible Means of Their Eradication, by Baltazar Thromp, 997 M41

The stalemate in space and the upper atmosphere was eventually broken in the most unexpected of ways, with the announcement by Governor Fulcher that Ironfound was to come to the aid of the orbital habitats, the residents of which had, quite naturally, been more than a little concerned at finding themselves not only facing the xenos interlopers directly, but cut off from their brethren on the surface to boot.

Never before in the history of Ironfound had such a logistical challenge been contemplated and met,[164] but the shuttle crews of every hive were eager to volunteer, heedless of the risks involved in running the eldar blockade. Suffused with righteous patriotism, compassion for their spaceborne compatriots and faith in the Emperor’s protection,[165] they came forward in numbers even the most optimistic proponents of the plan had failed to foresee.

This turned out to be something of a two-edged sword. On the one hand, the more vessels in the relief effort, the greater the chances of any given one evading the depredations of the eldar pirates became – but on the other, the larger the flotilla, the harder it became for the escorting fighters to protect them all.

Inevitably there were casualties, with almost fifteen per cent of the relieving vessels either destroyed or so severely damaged they were forced to break off and return to the surface, while only about thirty per cent of the remainder reached their destination entirely unscathed. The rest, however, battered but undaunted, forged on through the worst the enemy could throw at them, delivering not only much-needed comfort to the Skysiders, but a distinctly unwelcome surprise to the eldar as well.

Twenty-two

Our first intimation of trouble was a lurch which all but shook the fillings from my teeth, followed by the voice of Pontius in my vox-bead, sounding remarkably calm under the circumstances. ‘Hang on, it’s going to get rough.’

In the next few minutes the gig lurched, bounced, juddered, flipped, stood on its nose, and would probably have turned inside out if the pilot could have managed it. Preoccupied with hanging on, and trying to keep my last meal where it belonged, I saw little of the battle around us, which was probably just as well. As I’ve remarked before, the sensation of being unable to affect the outcome of events has never sat well with me, particularly when that involves sitting in a pressurised can surrounded by vacuum while somebody uses it for target practice. What little I was able to make out came in glimpses through the nearby viewport, supplemented by occasional helpful remarks from our pilot, such as ‘Three Nightshades, closing fast,’ ‘The Lightnings just got one,’ or ‘Evade, evade, evade!’

One thing I could tell without difficulty was that the sky outside was gradually shading from purple to black, interspersed with motes of light, many of which seemed to be moving fast and in random directions – although which were ships locked in a lethal gavotte, which were the larger orbital structures, and which were the stars themselves skidding across my field of vision as Pontius twisted and turned, I was soon too disorientated to hazard a guess at. Flashes of light flickered in the distance, either the discharge of powerful weapons or the death throes of a vessel caught in the crossfire, and I found myself vacillating between guilty relief that it hadn’t been us and apprehension that we’d only delayed the inevitable and would be the next to be hit.

After a while, however, the ride steadied down a bit, and Pontius came back on the vox-circuit sounding a little less tense. ‘That was the worst of it,’ he assured us. ‘We’re under the guns of the orbital defence batteries now. Which ought to keep the fleas off our backs.’

‘What about Defroy and his people?’ I asked, partly out of habit, as I was supposed to be concerned about the welfare of others, and partly because if he was the traitor we were looking for the prospect of his flash-frozen corpse incinerating itself in the upper atmosphere would definitely get my vote, even though the inquisitors would probably disagree.[166] ‘Did they make it too?’

‘They did,’ Pontius assured me. ‘The freighter they’re aboard took a bit of damage, but those things are robust. A single fighter can barely dent them, unless it makes a sustained attack run, and the Lightnings held the pointy-ears off nicely.’

‘Good to know,’ I said, reflecting that if I’d realised that before we set off I’d have found some excuse to join the household guard for the trip. ‘What’s our ETA?’

‘About seventeen minutes,’ Pontius said, and cut the link, no doubt hoping to find a stray eldar Nightshade to pick a fight with.

‘Well, if that’s the excitement over for a while, some of us have got work to do.’ Yanbel unbuckled his harness and rose, heading towards the door leading to the cargo compartment. ‘That suit of armour won’t sanctify itself.’

‘You think you’ll need it?’ I asked, and Amberley nodded.

‘Oh yes.’ Then, taking in my expression, she chuckled throatily in the manner I’d always found particularly bewitching. ‘Don’t look so worried. How much firepower’s a rabble of cultists likely to have?’ In my experience, more than enough to spoil the day if you found yourself standing in front of it, but saying so wouldn’t sit well with my reputation for dauntless courage, so I just nodded judiciously, which I’ve always found safer than actually saying anything at moments like this. Amberley went on. ‘Defroy will have told the authorities on Skyside Seventeen there’s an inquisitor coming, so let’s put on a bit of a show.’

‘Good idea,’ Vekkman agreed. ‘Distract their attention, so I can pursue our enquiries without disclosing my own identity.’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of scaring them witless,’ Amberley said, before adding, somewhat grudgingly, ‘but I suppose that might work too.’

‘I’d better break out the torque dampers and the incense, then,’ Yanbel said, and disappeared into the hold. A moment later his head reappeared. ‘I could do with an extra pair of hands here, by the way.’

‘Lets me out,’ Zemelda said, holding up her bandaged arm, and wincing theatrically.

‘Jurgen,’ I said, ‘do you think you could assist?’

‘Of course, sir,’ my aide said, visibly inflating with pride at the honour being accorded him, any lingering queasiness instantly forgotten. He disappeared through the access hatch, leaving the melta where it was, but keeping his lasgun slung. Like any other trooper in the Imperial Guard, he’d as soon be parted from his right arm as the weapon he’d been issued with. Everyone instantly began to breathe a little more easily.

‘So what’s the plan?’ Pelton asked. ‘Find the heretics, and see what they want the spirit stones for?’

‘That works for me,’ Amberley said. ‘Vekkman can chase down the leads he’s got around the docking bays, while the rest of us stomp about being the big scary inquisitor and her retinue for the local authorities. There can’t be that many places on an orbital where a heretic cult can enact their rituals without being noticed, so if we start turning them over once we land we should shake something loose before too long.’

‘That might take some time,’ Mott put in, sounding even more dubious than he looked. ‘I’ve seen the schematics. To the best of my recollection, there are one thousand four hundred and eighty-two potential meeting places, assuming they don’t simply use a private home, the back room of a hostelry, or some legitimate social venue hired through an intermediary unaware of their true nature and purpose.’

‘We’ll need to narrow that down,’ Pelton said, paging rapidly through the data-slate the savant held out. ‘Some of these utility areas contain power-lines, toxic chemicals or other hazards.’

‘No one ever said Chaos cultists are big on self-preservation,’ I put in, ‘but I’d be inclined to put those at the bottom of the list anyway. How many does eliminating anything potentially life-threatening leave?’

‘Six hundred and seventy-two,’ Mott replied at once.

‘Then the best of luck,’ Inquisitor Vekkman said, clearly convinced that this approach was doomed to failure, but happy to have Amberley and her entourage out from under his feet. ‘I’ll keep you informed of anything my enquiries uncover.’

‘That would be greatly appreciated,’ Amberley agreed, being careful not to reciprocate the offer.

‘And I suppose I’m the Imperial Guard liaison again?’ I asked, already sure of the answer.

Amberley nodded. ‘I’m sure you can find some troops to inspect and make a speech to,’ she said. ‘Between the two of us, we’ll make Vekkman practically invisible.’

Rakel raised her head, her eyes apparently fixed, as usual, on something several centimetres behind whatever she was looking at. ‘Something’s coming,’ she said, staring in my general direction. ‘It’s angry, and hungry, hungry and angry…’ She repeated the alternating phrases several times in a childish sing-song, before concluding, ‘…and it’s nearly really here.’

‘What is?’ I asked, and she stared at me as though having just suddenly become aware of my presence.

‘Not what, who,’ she said scornfully, before adding, ‘though she’s a what now too.’

Amberley and I exchanged no, me neither looks, but the psyker seemed to have said her piece, and we both found ourselves looking at Vekkman.

The brown-robed inquisitor shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he said, ‘she’s your acolyte.’

At which point Pontius voxed us again from the flight deck, effectively derailing any further discussion – which was a shame as it turned out, because if we’d had time to work out what she meant, we’d have avoided no end of trouble. ‘Just thought you’d like to know we’re on our final approach,’ he said.

I glanced out of the viewport again. Not much of the orbital was visible from this angle, since we were still far enough away from it for most of its bulk to be hidden behind the nose of the gig, but I could make out the blocky profile of Defroy’s commandeered heavy lifter coasting along in formation with us about a quarter of a kilometre away – a far more comfortable distance than the handful of metres we’d been apart at the beginning of our flight. Even from this distance I could make out a few blemishes on the side of the hull, where the eldar lasers had scorched across it, clawing their way through the outer plating. Further away, other motes of light were moving, though I couldn’t tell how many of them were making their way to the same destination. Some, I knew, were other orbitals, the vessels making for those, what was left of the system defence force patrolling the boundaries, or even eldar battleships prowling just beyond the range of the defensive batteries.

Abruptly, without any warning, a retina-searing flash burst somewhere just outside the area visible through the viewport, and I blinked, livid green after-images strobing across my field of vision.

‘What the hell was that?’ I demanded.

Editorial Note:

A good question, and one he doesn’t bother to answer directly, so once again we turn to Thromp’s superficial but substantially accurate account of events.

From The Eldar: a History of Their Presence in the Ultima Segmentum, and Some Musings Upon Possible Means of Their Eradication, by Baltazar Thromp, 997 M41

Though the passage through the eldar blockade of so many vessels bringing comfort and hope to those marooned in the void was a stunning victory for the forces of righteousness in and of itself, an even greater one was soon to be made manifest. Working in the greatest of secrecy, General Porten and Admiral Herren had concocted a stratagem between them which, they hoped, would deal a significant blow to the eldar invaders.

Unbeknownst to any but the highest command levels of the defence forces, and the Adeptus Mechanicus acolytes who had aided them, Governor Fulcher’s relief flotilla left the surface of Ironfound accompanied by a handful of apparently unremarkable cargo vessels indistinguishable from the multitude among which they travelled. Piloted by servitors, their cargo holds contained nothing but fusion warheads, each one capable of levelling an entire hive.[167] Prior to their departure, a series of apparently routine messages had been sent in a code which it was believed (correctly as it transpired) the eldar had already deciphered; these made it appear as though the ships in question were carrying items and resources which the xenos interlopers had taken a particular interest in during their previous piratical raids.

The ploy appeared at first to be an unqualified success, the bait being taken by a squadron of heavy fighters,[168] which crippled the engines of the leading decoy with precision laser bursts, before moving in to take the drifting vessel under tow. As it approached the eldar flagship[169] however, the warhead detonated prematurely.[170] Though the enemy battleship wasn’t destroyed, it did suffer sufficient damage from the explosion to force it to withdraw, taking no further active part in the invasion.

Forewarned by this, the eldar abandoned their attempts to seize the other pieces of bait, no doubt unnerved by this turn of events and apprehensive as to what other cunning plans may have been devised against them[171], and pulled most of their ships further back from the Imperial picket lines. Reverting to their secondary programming, the servitor pilots followed, attempting to ram the nearest eldar vessel and detonate their deadly cargoes, but none, alas, managed to do so, being easily picked off by the massed batteries of their targets far short of their goals.

Nevertheless, this may have been the decisive blow in the campaign; for though, as we shall see, the invaders were to make one further, desperate attempt to break the Imperial defensive line, the fight appeared to have gone out of them, their morale degraded almost as much as that of the gallant defenders had risen as a result. Because of this, it’s probably fair to say that, despite failing in its primary objective, the Porten-Herren stratagem was, in the end, an unqualified success.

Twenty-three

Close to, Skyside Seventeen seemed little different to most of the other void stations and orbitals I’d passed through in a lifetime of rattling around the galaxy, which is to say that any discernible form it might once have possessed had long since disappeared under a millennium or two’s worth of accretion. Docking arms, hangar bays and habitation zones stuck out haphazardly from a surface which most closely resembled a metal and armourcrys tuber (and in which, I strongly suspected, a few stray starships whose spacefaring days were done remained entombed, like insects in amber, becoming slowly digested as the city-sized installation had expanded). Vessels of all kinds scurried about the huge structure, ranging in size from warp-capable behemoths unwilling to risk making a run for it past the prowling eldar, right down to one-man utility pods and the void-suited hulljacks swarming all over it like flies across the surface of a large, rotten fruit. Nothing had exploded since the eldar had taken Herren’s bait, at least that I’d noticed, and everyone seemed to be going about their business as calmly and methodically as one could reasonably expect under the circumstances.

Most of them, anyway. As we disembarked in a small docking bay apparently intended for a single vessel and formed up behind Amberley, resplendent in her glossy black power armour chased with intricate gold filigree depicting icons of the Emperor and a reasonable selection of His saints, the gaggle of local dignitaries rounded up and herded in to meet us shifted and bleated uneasily like herbivores catching the scent of a predator on the wind. Eventually, one in the formal robes of a local aristo was shuffled to the front – or the others proved to be more successful in their efforts to hide at the back – and made a stiff, formal bow.

‘Welcome to Skyside Seventeen, inquisitor,’ he said, his voice quavering no more than people’s generally do when they’re not quite sure whether you’re going to shoot them or not. ‘To what do we owe–’

‘It’s not an honour, and you don’t owe me anything,’ Amberley said, cutting him off before he could get into the sort of rambling, cliché-ridden speech reluctant spokesmen tend to go in for, her voice growling like a Space Marine through the suit’s external speakers. ‘I need up-to-date schematics of the whole orbital, in as much detail as you can manage. My savant will know what to look for.’ Servos whined faintly, like summer insects, as she gestured Mott forward. The visor of her helmet was down, concealing her face, so only I was able to picture the mischievous grin I was certain lurked just behind the mask.

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ The aristo seized on the implied dismissal with alacrity. ‘If you’d care to come with me…’ he said, turning to Mott.

‘Not particularly, but the sooner I obtain the information, the sooner we can conclude our business,’ Mott said, adopting a rather less affable air than usual. He gestured to Vekkman, whose brown robe had probably let him fade far enough into the background to escape the notice of most of the assembled dignitaries entirely up to this point. ‘You too.’

Vekkman nodded, and fell into place at Mott’s side as the savant strode away in the wake of the nervously scurrying spokesman. We’d spent a few minutes discussing how best to get him out of the hangar and free to follow up his leads in the docking bays without being noticed, and acting the part of a minion seemed the best bet.

As soon as they’d gone, Amberley turned to the next in line, a middle-aged woman in the plainer garb of a senior Administratum functionary, who turned a distinct Jurgen-ish shade but, to her credit, stared up at the blank features of Amberley’s helmet as though looking her straight in the eye. ‘You. Where are the military people?’

The bureaucrat swallowed. ‘They’re all rather busy at the moment, inquisitor. Our senior commanders were invited to join us, of course, but regretfully declined the honour of meeting you, as they felt the security of the orbital came first.’ Which was quite diplomatically put, I thought.

‘Good. They were right,’ Amberley said, and the collective sigh of relief from the assembled functionaries practically blew my cap off. She stood aside a little, to bring me out from behind the shadow of her power suit, and everyone duly gawped at the Hero of the Imperium. ‘I’m sure you know Commissar Cain.’

‘We know of him, of course,’ the woman said, the reflexive pedanticism of a true bureaucrat apparently unquashed even in the presence of an inquisitor, ‘although none of us, I believe, has had the honour of making his acquaintance before now.’

‘My loss, I’m sure,’ I said, smiling affably, in a manner calculated to put everyone at their ease – or as close to it as possible while they were facing a power-armoured agent of the Inquisition backed up by a group of acolytes with visible guns, anyway. ‘I’m here to inspect your defences, and congratulate your local commanders on the splendid job they’re doing in holding the enemy at bay. Things would be a lot grimmer down on the ground if it wasn’t for their efforts, I can assure you.’ Which, of course, was the perfect line to take. Amberley had intimidated them, and now I was flattering them, at least by association, so between us we could mould them like a potter kneading clay.

‘Of course.’ The bureaucrat nodded eagerly, before her expression went back to one of apprehensive uncertainty. ‘That might take a little while to arrange, however.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ I said, although normally anyone making excuses like that would be getting pretty short shrift from me. One of the privileges of wearing the scarlet sash is that it lets you barge in anywhere, whenever you like, at least if you can claim some kind of military connection. Right now, though, I was perfectly happy to give the local militia a chance to hide any evidence of slack discipline, pilferage from the stores, or general incompetence of any kind; I had a different target in mind. If Defroy really was our heretic traitor, I wanted him where I could see him, preferably at the business end of my laspistol. ‘I take it I can leave the preparations in your capable hands?’

‘Indeed you can, commissar,’ the woman agreed, colouring slightly for some reason.[172]

‘Splendid,’ I said. ‘In the meantime, I’ll check in with the commander of the governor’s household guards. If you could point me in the direction of wherever they’ve docked?’

‘Of course.’ She gestured towards the portal through which Mott, Vekkman and their reluctant guide had disappeared a few moments ago. ‘You’ll need the pneumatic at the end of the corridor. They’ll be in sector cerulean taupe, in the third tier docking bay.’

‘You seem very certain of that,’ I said, keeping my tone conversational despite a shiver of unease. ‘Given the number of vessels which have just docked.’ She might have the same kind of augmented cerebellum that Mott did, of course, but so far had shown none of the tendency to compulsive loghorrea that I associated with that kind of enhancement. Any normal person shouldn’t have known that without looking it up.

‘If it’s anything to do with the governor, that’s where it’ll be,’ the woman assured me. ‘The nearest docking bay to his Skyside estates.’

‘Of course.’ I nodded, a fragment of memory seeping into my skull. Herren had referred to it in passing, trying to track the eldar Vypers which had so unexpectedly saved my life. ‘And we are in…?’

‘Sector vermillion beige,’ she said. ‘Everywhere’s colour coded, so you should find your way without too much difficulty.’ She looked at me speculatively. ‘Unless you’re colour blind?’

‘I don’t believe so,’ I said, with a smile I thought an appropriate response to the laboured attempt at humour. ‘I should be fine, unless you’ve got a sector beige taupe. I’ve always had trouble telling those two apart.’

‘I think everybody does,’ the woman said.

I turned to my aide, who was looking as healthy as he ever did now we were no longer being bounced around like a pea in a can. ‘Jurgen?’

‘Is he with you?’ The tone of surprise in the bureaucrat’s voice was unmistakable. ‘I thought he was one of the inquisitor’s people.’

‘My personal aide,’ I said, ‘and a credit to his uniform.’ Which, admittedly, was stretching it a bit, especially since clothing didn’t so much fit him as hang around in his general vicinity.

‘Ready when you are, sir,’ Jurgen assured me. He had the melta slung across his shoulders for ease of carrying but, I was pleased to see, kept his lasgun where he could swing it round and open fire with it at a moment’s notice.

‘Then we’d best get on,’ I said, making a show of bowing formally to Amberley. ‘By your leave, inquisitor.’

‘By all means, commissar,’ she responded, the hint of amusement at the charade colouring her voice audible only to me (and possibly the members of her warband, who also knew her well).

Leaving the docking bay, Jurgen and I found ourselves in a wide, stark corridor, both sides of which were lined at intervals by heavy pressure doors leading to hangar bays like the one we’d arrived in. Well over half of them were empty, the parked ships in the occupied ones lonely and abandoned, save for the occasional enginseer performing routine maintenance on them, or bored-looking crew members keeping a desultory eye on their charges. Usually, no doubt, the wide passageway we walked along would have been crowded with shuttle crews leaving or returning to their ships, dock workers hustling cargoes in and out of the bays, along with the odd servitor to handle the heavy lifting, trollies and grav-sleds trundling down the marked lane in the middle of the floor and, almost certainly, the occasional low life keeping an eye out for something to pilfer. The relatively few people we did meet seemed intent on their own business, although a few turned to watch us go past, their eyes apparently caught by the unusual sight of my uniform, or the weapons Jurgen was carrying.

‘I suppose this must be the pneumatic whatsername was talking about,’ I said, as we came to the end of the corridor after several minutes of walking. I’d been fairly certain we were going in the right direction, as variously coloured arrows adorned the walls at intervals, and there hadn’t been anywhere else to go in any case. Now the passageway opened out into a large, circular chamber, where others joined it; the space was crowded with a number of metal tubes of various diameters which pierced the floor and ceiling, like a necron’s idea of a forest. Some were wide enough to have parked a small vehicle in, no doubt intended for the efficient movement of cargo, while others were evidently for the use of passengers.

‘This one, I think, sir,’ Jurgen said, indicating a medium-sized one decorated with several arrows, all bisected along their lengths into two colours. One did indeed look bluish and greyish, which I supposed was close enough to cerulean taupe.

‘Only one way to find out,’ I said, jabbing at the rune to open the thick, curving door. For a moment nothing happened, then a loud rumbling shook the metal tube. As it died away, the door slid open with a faint hiss, admitting us to a cylindrical inner chamber. I stepped inside, finding a panel mounted on the wall next to the doorway, with a number of arrows inset in it, their particoloured decoration matching those on the outside to which Jurgen had so recently drawn my attention. The next step was obvious, so I prodded the blue and grey one and hoped for the best.

The door clanked closed, sealing with a thud, then the whole contraption shifted, with a loud hissing noise as the air pressure built up on one side. Then, with a lurch – and a surge of acceleration which left me feeling as though my kneecaps were suddenly level with my ears – we were off, bouncing and rattling so much I began to feel nostalgic for the dogfight we’d so recently come through. It seemed to me that we jolted through several junctions and changes of direction, but the internal grav-plates kept us orientated in the same plane throughout our journey, so it was hard to be sure. All I could be certain of was that it only took about five minutes to reach our destination, and we arrived there with a sudden jerk which almost dislodged the cap from my head.

‘I suppose you’d get used to it,’ Jurgen commented, his usual phlegmatic demeanour now well and truly restored, and I nodded, adjusting my headgear to a more dignified position.

‘I imagine you would,’ I agreed, although if I lived around here and I had the time, I’d probably walk as much as I could. Before either of us could comment any further, however, the door of the capsule hissed open, and we were struck by the noise and bustle of a busy commercial docking zone. ‘Looks like the right place, anyway.’

Jurgen nodded, and we stepped out of the transport tube with, I must confess, a certain sense of relief, at least on my part. It was one of several, at the confluence of a quartet of corridors far wider and higher than the one we’d walked down after leaving the hangar bay in which we’d arrived, all of which were full of traffic. Some of the tubes were larger than any we’d seen before; as we stepped hurriedly aside, a lorry growled past us and on through the open door of one of these, in which it parked. A moment later the door hissed closed, and it was whisked away Emperor knew where.

‘That looks like one of the trucks Pelton got a lift with,’ Jurgen remarked, and I nodded, having come to the same conclusion – which was confirmed almost at once, as a new capsule arrived in place of the recent departure and disgorged another utility vehicle displaying the gubernatorial crest. This one was riding noticeably higher on its springs, indicating that its load had been delivered and it was on its way back for another.

‘This way,’ I said, setting out after it through the maelstrom of people, servitors and vehicles arriving and departing all around us, mostly heavily laden. If this wasn’t where the majority of the relief ships had ended up, it was clear that a reasonable number had docked in this part of the orbital, and the supplies they’d brought with them were now well on the way to where they were supposed to be. Most of them, anyway; some degree of pilferage was inevitable, but I saw a fair number of blue-and-gold uniforms keeping an eye on things, so at least that would be kept to a minimum.

Despite the confusion surrounding us we managed to make reasonable progress through the crowd, which parted with gratifying ease, possibly because of the visible weapons we carried, and possibly because most people tended to give Jurgen a wide berth whenever they could, even at the best of times. That made it easy to keep the truck we followed in sight, and mark which hangar it disappeared into even at a distance of over a hundred metres.

In most respects, the docking bays and their servicing corridors were pretty much identical to the ones we’d so recently left, other than their far greater size. Even so, the huge transport vessel almost filled the one to which it had been assigned, the engines of the trucks scuttling up and down the loading ramps creating so many echoes it felt like walking into a tympani.

‘There’s Commander Defroy, sir,’ Jurgen said, pointing a grubby finger, and I nodded, setting out across the deck plates towards him, my aide, as always, at my side. ‘Who’s he talking to?’

‘I can’t tell at this distance,’ I said, narrowing my eyes in an attempt to make it out. Whoever it was, they were wearing the blue-and-gold uniform of a household trooper, although something about their posture seemed subtly wrong. Their bearing looked distinctly unmilitary, not nearly deferential enough for someone addressing an officer of Defroy’s exalted rank, and they were holding their hellgun as though they barely knew how to lift it, let alone use it.

‘It’s one of those guards who nearly missed the shuttle,’ Jurgen said, his voice freighted with scorn. ‘Did you ever see such a disgrace to a military uniform?’

‘Not that I can recall,’ I said carefully, reflecting that, as usual, Jurgen and irony wouldn’t recognise one another if they were formally introduced. He was right, though; now he came to mention it the fellow did look vaguely familiar, even though the slightly oversized helmet he was wearing obscured most of his features. ‘But no doubt Defroy’s straightening him out.’

‘Looks more like the other way round to me,’ Jurgen said, with a trace of puzzlement, and once again, I was forced to agree; the sloppy soldier was talking now, with some vehemence, but instead of reacting angrily to such a blatant display of insubordination Defroy was merely nodding. ‘Perhaps you should show him how it ought to be done.’

‘Maybe I should,’ I agreed, although the little tickle of paranoia which has done so much to keep me out of trouble[173] over the years was urging me to be cautious. We were here, after all, because I wasn’t sure how much we could trust Defroy. If he was part of a Chaos cult we needed to proceed carefully, without tipping our hand, and appearing to question his fitness for command wouldn’t sit too well with that.

‘Commander.’ I raised my voice above the cacophony with the ease of years of practice, and lifted a hand in greeting. Defroy and the trooper broke off their conversation, both turning to look at me with expressions of bemused surprise. ‘I trust you came through the engagement unscathed?’

‘Yes. Yes, we did,’ Defroy said, adjusting rapidly to my presence. ‘No one hurt, apart from a few bruises.’

‘And your cargo?’ I asked. ‘Any problems with that?’

‘All delivered safe and sound,’ the trooper said, cutting in with a disregard for the military protocols which elicited a sharp intake of breath from Jurgen – for whom they were tantamount to the word of the Emperor Himself – and which, I must confess, took me somewhat by surprise as well. There was something familiar about his voice, however, and I hesitated, trying to place it, rather than jumping in to reprimand him at once. The fellow went on. ‘Food supplies are being offloaded now, and transferred to the warehouses.’

‘Which just leaves a few things to take to the governor’s estate,’ Defroy said, in the sort of voice people use when they’re trying to hint that the person they’re talking to should be quiet and frak off now, without saying so in so many words.

‘Like what?’ I asked, feeling a distinct sense of unease. ‘I thought this was supposed to be a purely humanitarian effort. Apart from the booby traps, of course.’

Defroy nodded. ‘Yes, that was a surprise. No one on the governor’s staff had been told about that.’

‘Not even me.’ The trooper lifted off his helmet, and smiled a greeting. ‘I’m still not sure whether to congratulate them on being able to keep a secret so well, or be miffed with them for keeping me out of the loop.’

‘Perhaps a little of both, your excellency,’ I said, keeping any astonishment I might feel at suddenly finding myself face-to-face with the governor from becoming visible. ‘After all, under the circumstances, they might very well say the same.’

Fulcher nodded. ‘Quite so,’ he agreed, with a faint air of self-satisfaction.

Twenty-four

‘The governor’s here?’ Amberley said, her puzzlement and irritation audible even over the vox-link. ‘What the hell for?’

‘Security, Defroy says,’ I told her, the scepticism I felt seeping into my own voice despite my best efforts to report back as neutrally as I could. ‘Since their investigation’s still stalled, and no one’s managed to work out how the assassin got into the governor’s mansion on Ironfound yet, they decided to move him to his Skyside estate.’

‘Why wait so long, then?’ Amberley asked – rhetorically I hoped, as I hadn’t a clue myself. ‘And running an enemy blockade to a void station smack in the firing line seems a peculiar way of trying to keep anyone safe.’

‘That was Fulcher’s idea, apparently,’ I replied, trying not to think too much about the ‘smack in the firing line’ part of what she’d just said. ‘The last place anyone trying to target him would think to look, or try to get to.’ I glanced around, making sure Defroy and Fulcher were still both out of earshot, which fortunately they were, being engrossed in conversation again at the foot of the heavy shuttle’s loading ramp. The steady stream of trucks rumbling up and down it had diminished to a trickle by now, although they were still making enough noise to afford me the opportunity to contact Amberley with little chance of being overheard. Even less so with Jurgen standing watch behind me, his presence obvious even out of my line of sight.

‘There might be some political angle too,’ Pelton suggested, cutting in on the same frequency. ‘Shoulder to shoulder with the Skysiders on the front line, that kind of thing.’

‘That’s possible,’ I conceded. I’d run across innumerable politicians over the decades, and was long past being surprised by any piece of idiocy they’d commit in order to curry favour with the populace. The average Imperial governor’s position isn’t nearly as secure as they like to pretend, with innumerable relatives, rivals or both poised to take advantage of any perceived weakness; not to mention oversight at the subsector level or higher, which can remove any of them from office if they don’t appear to be up to the job.[174] Accordingly, the more prudent ones would go to great lengths to maintain their popularity among the citizenry. ‘Or maybe he just wants to be around to take the credit for the relief flights in person.’ Particularly as Mott had already deduced that their primary purpose was to stiffen the resolve of the defenders.

Amberley snorted. ‘No maybe about that if you ask me. But he’s not a bad governor as these things go, so good luck to him if it helps. Do you think Defroy’s our man?’

‘He could be,’ I said, a little warily. So far I’d seen nothing which pointed towards Chaotic leanings in the household guards’ commander, but if he really was a cult member who’d managed to infiltrate the highest levels of the governor’s staff then he’d hardly be parading around in a pink bandana[175] prattling about how much more fun it was indulging every conceivable vice in a Slaaneshi shrine than listening to some ecclesiarch droning through a sermon in a temple to the Emperor. Then honesty impelled me to add, ‘but he hasn’t shown any heretical tendencies so far.’

‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he?’ Amberley said, to my inexpressible relief. ‘Better stick with him for a while. If he is clean it wouldn’t hurt to have another pair of eyes on the governor, and if he isn’t, you just might be on the spot to prevent a coup d’état.’

‘If you think that’s best,’ I said, trying not to sound too elated.[176] Rejoining the others would mean getting dragged into a hands-on heretic hunt, and I’d already been down more than enough utility conduits with gun-toting loonies lurking in ambush at the other end for one lifetime.

‘I do,’ Amberley said, sounding faintly amused about something. ‘Besides, I’d rather keep Jurgen as far away from Rakel as possible at the moment. Her talents could come in useful.’

‘I’m sure they could,’ I said diplomatically. In my experience they very seldom did, but Amberley knew the psyker a great deal better than me, and to be fair, I’d generally seen her when Jurgen was in the vicinity, which probably[177] didn’t help much. ‘Is she coming up with anything at the moment?’

‘Hard to say,’ Amberley said. ‘Listen.’ She must have opened another channel, because the psyker’s voice was suddenly in my ear, along with her own, although it was hard to be certain for a moment; instead of babbling gnomic gibberish, as I’d expected, the woman was singing – some complex, wordless melody that seemed to veer through several conflicting emotions like a drunken Guardsman ricocheting his way through a bar room full of tables in an attempt to find the exit. ‘She’s been doing that ever since we left the docking arm. Something on the orbital’s affecting her.’

‘More spirit stones?’ I asked, jumping to the obvious conclusion.

‘Could be,’ Amberley said. ‘She’s been trying to commune with the ones we found, but they’re so far outside anything she’s experienced before that she can’t explain any impressions she can pick up in terms we’d understand.’ Business as usual, in other words, I thought sourly.

‘So we’re time-wasting following her wanderbouts instead of finding some dregs we can gun,’ Zemelda put in, a trifle irritably, her mauled arm apparently causing her even more discomfort by now.

‘So we’re seeing if she can lead us to whatever she’s sensing,’ Amberley corrected, in the calm, reasonable tone everyone naturally found themselves agreeing with, if they had any sense at all.

‘Good luck with that,’ I said. ‘Heard anything from Vekkman?’

‘No,’ Amberley said, clearly happy to have it remain that way. ‘Caractacus says he just turned round for a moment in the main concourse and when he looked back he was gone.’

Which wasn’t my problem, of course. ‘I’ll check in if anything happens,’ I said, and turned back to my aide. ‘We’re sticking with the governor’s people for now.’

‘Very good, sir,’ Jurgen replied, his inevitable response when he didn’t see the point of something but assumed there must be one because someone in authority had just made a decision.

I waved to Fulcher and Defroy, and began walking towards them in the exaggeratedly leisurely manner of someone who expects to be waited for. ‘It seems we’ll have the pleasure of one another’s company for a little while longer,’ I said, as I came within easy conversational range. ‘The inquisitor has just suggested I review your security arrangements here, to ensure His Excellency’s safety.’ I glanced at Defroy as I spoke, for any sign of discomfiture; if I was a heretic infiltrator, a broad hint that an inquisitor didn’t entirely trust me wouldn’t exactly put my mind at rest. But Defroy was nodding, an expression curiously like relief spreading across his face.

‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ he said. ‘Under the circumstances, I’d feel a lot happier knowing a man with a reputation like yours was helping to guard the governor.’

‘As would I,’ Fulcher said, with a brisk business-like nod. He glanced past my shoulder, got his first real look at Jurgen, and his affable smile curdled for a moment before reforming into the expression of faint disbelief most people adopted when being introduced to him. ‘And this is your aide, I take it?’

‘You take it correctly.’ I nodded briskly, and made the usual back-and-forth gesture concomitant on exchanging the names of third parties. ‘Gunner Jurgen,’ I said. ‘Governor Fulcher.’ I watched the Emperor’s anointed coming slowly to terms with this unexpected development, and wondered if he’d hold out a hand to shake from sheer force of habit, but perhaps fortunately for all concerned he overcame the impulse. ‘You won’t find a better man to have at your back.’

‘I don’t doubt that at all,’ Fulcher said, while Jurgen positively glowed from the compliment. ‘Anyone serving with a man like you must be equally exceptional.’

Jurgen shook his head. ‘Plenty more like me in the Guard, sir,’ he said modestly but, thank the Emperor, completely inaccurately.

‘Then our victory against the eldar must be all but assured,’ Fulcher said, determined to have the last word. He turned to Defroy. ‘Have all the relief supplies been offloaded?’

Defroy listened to a voice in his vox-bead. ‘They have,’ he confirmed after a moment.

‘Then I don’t see any point in waiting around.’ Fulcher put his helmet back on, no doubt fondly imagining that he now passed for a soldier, a delusion I rather uncharitably felt I’d like to see challenged by one of the drill sergeants the Guard relies on to knock similar notions out of the heads of raw recruits.

‘Neither do I.’ Defroy turned back to the loading ramp, where a single utility truck was trundling its way towards us. It bounced almost imperceptibly on its tyres as it made the transition to the deck plates, then growled in our direction at a little more than walking pace. It had a few crates stacked in the open cargo compartment behind the driver’s cab, with a couple of guards perching uncomfortably on top of them, their hellguns at the ready.

‘If everything’s been unloaded, what’s that?’ I asked.

Defroy shrugged. ‘Something that looks like it needs an escort,’ he said reasonably. ‘Can’t smuggle His Excellency into the estate disguised as a guard if there’s no reason for new guards to be arriving, can we?’

‘I suppose not,’ I said, although it sounded pretty thin to me. I’d probably have commented further if I hadn’t left my comm-bead tuned to Amberley’s command frequency, which meant I was being distracted by Rakel’s caterwauling despite my best efforts to remain focused on what was going on around me. There was something faintly hypnotic about it, but switching frequencies again might mean missing some urgent or vital vox from Amberley, so I just let it run and tried to ignore the noise as best I could.

The truck drew up next to us, and a single glance at the guards in the back was enough to convince me that they were no more real troopers than Fulcher himself. They seemed alert enough, eyeing Jurgen and I with clear suspicion, but like the governor they held their hellguns awkwardly instead of with the instinctive ease of the seasoned warrior. Bodyguards, then, more used to easily concealable weapons like pistols and throwing knives.

I held up a hand as Fulcher reached out for the passenger door of the truck, and shook an admonishing head. ‘You’ll have to sit in the back, I’m afraid. Unless you want people to wonder why a common trooper’s riding in style while his commanding officer’s rattling around with the luggage.’ The ersatz guards already up there almost succeeded in suppressing visible grins.

For a moment something dark and ugly kindled in the back of Fulcher’s eyes, then a bland and rueful grin spread across his face. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘you’re absolutely right.’ Slinging the hellgun across his shoulders he clambered awkwardly into the flatbed, shrugging away the proffered hand of the nearest bodyguard.

‘Mind your backs,’ Jurgen said, swinging easily aboard in his wake, despite the added encumbrance of the melta. He kicked the nearest crate to assess its robustness, and settled on it, scanning our surroundings with wary eyes. ‘Got a good view from up here, sir.’

Rakel’s voice in my vox-bead wavered, and stopped.

‘What’s wrong?’ Amberley cut in at once, her voice freighted with concern.

‘A disturbance in the warp,’ Rakel said, with surprising lucidity. ‘Some of the voices suddenly went silent.’

‘What about the others?’ Amberley asked.

Rakel hesitated a moment. ‘Still there,’ she said, ‘but they’re fainter. And she’s almost here.’

‘Sounds like you’re busy,’ I said, then made the offer everyone was expecting me to, given my fraudulent reputation. ‘I can be right with you if you need backup.’

‘Stay with Fulcher,’ Amberley said. ‘Between the cultists and the eldar, he must be the biggest target on the orbital by now.’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ I said, rather wishing I could, and that I wasn’t so close to him.

Editorial Note:

Given the short gap which now ensues before Cain picks up his narrative again, this seems a reasonable point at which to insert a brief account of the state of affairs back on Ironfound. For those readers wishing to skip it, the short version is ‘not good.’

From Like a Phoenix on the Wing: the Early Campaigns and Glorious Victories of the Valhallan 597th by General Jenit Sulla (retired), 101 M42

Despite the heroic efforts of the local defenders the eldar continued to advance up through the underhive, seeping ever higher, like the effusions of a blocked and defective sewer. Though resisted at every step, they gained ground inexorably, striding over the cadavers of the fallen, pausing only to loot the bodies of their own stricken comrades,[178] a display of barbarous venality which roused the righteous ire and disgust of every woman and man who witnessed it.

My own company was the first element of the 597th to be called into action, and I’m proud to say not a single trooper shirked their duty. Checked at last in their upward rise by the cunningly deployed mines laid at General Porten’s behest, the first few to detonate demonstrating beyond doubt even to these degenerate zealots that the price in blood of attempting to persist in that particular endeavour would be a fortune fatal to squander, the xenos interlopers reverted to a new and different strategy. Rather than running the gauntlet of explosive destruction, and lacking the sorcerous means to nullify the threat,[179] they began to enlarge and divert the tunnels leading off laterally from those rising towards the well-defended gates barring access to the upper hive and the spire beyond that.

Our first intimation that a new and dangerous strategy was being used against us came in the form of a request for aid from the Ironfound Defence Force on the lowest levels of the industrial district above the gates. The burrowing eldar had reached the surface outside the hive, where battle was swiftly joined against the native troops patrolling the lethally desolate landscape in anticipation of just such an eventuality. Alas, despite their gallantry, they were outnumbered and outgunned, and swiftly overwhelmed.

With resistance on the surface overcome, the invaders turned their attention to the external gates used, in less straitened times, for the despatch and receipt of the overland convoys which transferred goods and citizens between the hives in quantities unfeasible by air. Though sufficiently solid to withstand the very worst the elements of Ironfound could throw against them, and reinforced against just such a contingency, they simply couldn’t hold for long against a sustained enemy assault. But hold they did, for just long enough: as they broke through into the cargo bays and loading docks used by the inter-hive crawlers, the xenos were met by the spearhead of the 597th.

From my position in the cupola of the company command Chimera I had an excellent view of that moment of first contact and, I must admit, felt a moment of trepidation as I regarded the horde we were facing. As in our previous encounters, they were relying on speed to evade incoming fire and consequently we were facing light units for the most part: walkers; jetbikes swooping low as they swept through the enclosed spaces in an attempt to flank us, taking advantage of the thirty-metre-high ceiling of the main crawler bays; and of course a never-ending tide of infantry.

Perturbing as they were, however, these were as nothing to the eldar sorcerers bounding forward at the head of the horde, eldritch energies crackling around the primitive-looking spears in their hands. These were no mere symbols of authority, I would swiftly discover, flying from the hands of their wielders to bring death and destruction wherever they struck. In those first few horrifying seconds I saw one rip through the hull plating of one of fifth platoon’s Chimeras, tearing it apart like a paper model, the very life sucked from its luckless occupants.

Reasoning that our troopers would be sitting targets cooped up inside their transports, I ordered everyone to disembark, taking the fight to the enemy with las-bolt and bayonet in the time-honoured tradition of the Astra Militarum, an order which, I’m gratified to say, was followed with alacrity by every woman and man under my command.

Taking what cover they could behind the abundance of buttresses, parked vehicles and abandoned cargo containers, the daughters and sons of Valhalla formed a formidable defensive line, the combined firepower of which checked the initial onslaught of the oncoming infantry horde, while the heavy bolters of our Chimeras opened up to engage the swooping jetbikes. Apprehending that the sorcerers were the greater threat, however, I ordered our vehicle commanders to engage those, only to find them protected by potent sorceries which blunted the impact of our bolts. Nevertheless, a few of them fell, the rest pulling back behind the advancing walkers for protection.

These, then, became our primary adversaries, ravening energies sweeping ahead of them, destroying every vehicle they touched. Though at first we gave as good as we got, toppling several, the sheer weight of numbers eventually began to tell, and, with a heavy heart, I was forced to order a retreat in good order to the secondary defensive line which our dogged resistance had given Second and Fifth Companies enough time to prepare behind us.

Though trusting as ever in The Emperor’s guiding hand to bring us ultimate victory, I found myself missing the inspirational leadership of Commissar Cain, who would surely have had a heartening aphorism or resolve-stiffening quip appropriate for the occasion. As it was, however, his duties had taken him elsewhere, so I did the best I could myself, with most gratifying results, and wished him well wherever he was.

Twenty-five

I wasn’t sure quite what I’d been expecting Fulcher’s Skyside estate to look like, but it turned out to be a compact version of the mansion at the tip of the spire. There were even gardens surrounding it – an unbelievable luxury on an orbital – which, as we drove towards the cluster of low-lying structures at the centre of the armourcrys dome enclosing the estate, became suddenly bathed in sunlight as the orbital moved out of the shadow of the planet below.

‘He should be safe enough here,’ Defroy said, raising his voice a little over the growling of the engine. ‘No one’s getting through the gates without authorisation.’

‘They seemed secure,’ I agreed, without committing myself to anything more complacent. He’d thought exactly the same thing about the mansion on Ironfound, after all. But here, at least, the gates were airlock chambers large enough to admit several vehicles at once rather than simple barriers, penning anyone entering or leaving the domed area in a confined space where they could be minutely examined before being allowed to proceed. ‘How many more gates like that are there?’

‘Two,’ Defroy said. ‘This used to be a docking bay for bulk ore transporters before the new processing plants opened on Skysides Twelve and Twenty-Six. When the ore traffic moved out in M-thirty-nine, they just built the dome across the space and landscaped it. The old airlocks weren’t strictly necessary at that point, but the governor at the time wasn’t exactly popular, so they were left where they were to control access more tightly.’

‘And why was that?’ I asked.

Defroy looked puzzled. ‘She didn’t want to be assassinated or strung up by insurrectionists?’ he hazarded.

I shook my head. ‘I mean why wasn’t she popular?’

‘Because she was the governor,’ Defroy said. ‘It was a difficult time. Lot of tension between the Skysiders and the Dirtgrubbers.’ He smiled, in a faintly embarrassed fashion. ‘Which is what they called the surface dwellers. They thought the administration down there was out of touch with their concerns. So it was decided that the governor should divide her time between the hives and the orbitals to help foster a spirit of unity.’

‘I see.’ I nodded. With tensions running high, securing the dome against attack as discreetly as possible would have been a high priority. ‘A tradition maintained to this day, I take it.’

‘Pretty much,’ Defroy agreed. ‘Some governors spent more time in the hive, and some would have stayed up here permanently if they could, but most of them have divided their time more or less equally.’

‘And His Excellency?’ I asked, faking polite interest.

‘Definitely one of the latter. Born up here, thinks of himself as a Skysider first and foremost.’ Which I supposed went some way towards explaining his rash decision to run the blockade. ‘But he doesn’t let that get in the way of objective decision-making. Or spending as much time on Ironfound as he needs to get the job done.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I said, although to be honest I was no more interested in the governor’s vicissitudes than in anything else the civilians got up to while the Guard kept the galaxy at bay. I glanced at our surroundings. ‘Seems comfortable enough.’ The truck was negotiating a wide gravel drive by now, which wove its way around lush lawns and artfully clipped shrubbery, revealing sporadic glimpses of the most impressive frontages of the main house. The overall effect was evidently meant to evoke the ambience of a country estate on an agri world somewhere, in stark contrast to the rest of its surroundings, although – like the gardens of Fulcher’s mansion in the spire – the needs of defence had clearly played a part in the placement of things. I found myself wondering just how many of the decorative excrescences concealed emplaced weapons and, once I started examining things more closely, began to detect clear signs of artifice. Many of the shrubs were too symmetrical to have been the unaided work of nature, and the larger trees appeared to have been cast in the same kind of resin as the pseudowood panelling I’d noticed in his spiretop mansion.

‘What’s that?’ As we rounded the final corner, heading for the main entrance rather than the service one – presumably because now we were safely within the governor’s demesne he saw no further need for subterfuge – a large block of neatly clipped foliage roughly the size of a scrumball pitch had come into view. It seemed like an enclosure of some kind, twice the height of a man, pierced at intervals with arches, presumably giving access to whatever lay inside.

‘That’s the maze,’ Defroy said. ‘It’s quite famous. According to legend, it’s so complex people occasionally get lost for days, and a few of them are never seen again.’ He grinned. ‘Although all you have to do is keep taking the second left followed by the first right, and it takes you straight to the middle. And reverse it to come straight back out.’

The truck lurched, with a squeal of brakes, and we came to a halt so close to the centre of the wide circle of gravel in front of the house that our driver, who might as well have been a servitor for all the notice he’d taken of our presence alongside him, could have measured it with a ruler. He turned his head, and spoke to us for the first and last time. ‘Here we are,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ I replied, as politeness costs nothing, and it never hurts to let people think you care. I popped the passenger door and climbed out, followed by Defroy, in time to see Fulcher clambering down from the flatbed. He didn’t seem to have enjoyed the journey very much, although it had been short, mainly among the dock traffic, before we’d turned off along the tunnel leading to the gateway to the dome. Nevertheless he rearranged his composure, glancing over my shoulder at the grand entrance to the house behind us. On this side of the structure, two quarter-circular wings swept out from it to enclose the nearest half of the gravelled area we were parked on, and a welcoming party was heading in our direction with all the speed they could manage concomitant with the dignity of their positions. The man in front – tall, greying, and in the most ornate robes – was clearly in charge, and greeted Fulcher accordingly.

‘Welcome home, your excellency. I trust your journey didn’t prove too fatiguing?’

‘Not so you’d notice,’ Fulcher said, neatly skipping over the lives lost in the process of delivering him. He gestured in my direction. ‘This is the celebrated Commissar Cain, who will be our guest for a while. I trust you’ll be able to find him some suitable accommodation.’

‘Of course, sir.’ The major-domo nodded, in exactly the same manner I suspected he would have done if he’d been asked to find some tanna or turn the sun down a bit because it was too bright.

‘Splendid.’ Fulcher turned back to me. ‘Anything you need, just ask Evander here.’ His bodyguards jumped down from the truck, taking up station just behind his shoulders.

‘Of course, sir,’ Evander repeated, gesturing to the other servants, who promptly began to manhandle the boxes from the back of the truck. ‘I’ll have your luggage taken directly to your private apartments.’

‘Apart from that one,’ Fulcher said, apparently struck by an afterthought, and gesturing towards the crate currently supporting Jurgen’s buttocks. ‘That’s for this evening’s festivities.’

‘Festivities?’ I asked, noting a momentary frown appear on Defroy’s face. ‘Is that appropriate under the circumstances?’

Defroy nodded in agreement. ‘I would earnestly advise the cancellation of the translocation cotillion,’ he said. ‘Inviting guests here while your life may be in danger will hardly help with security.’

Fulcher laughed, in the easy-going manner of someone who’s had his own way about almost everything since the day he first learned to suck his thumb, and wants everyone not to forget it. ‘I have you, your finest guards, and now a Hero of the Imperium ensuring my personal safety.’ Then, with a faintly dismissive gesture to the bodyguards behind him, ‘Plus these two. I think I’ll be safe enough.’

‘As you wish,’ Defroy said, his tone of voice adding ‘however stupid that is’ for anyone who cared to hear it, although Fulcher either didn’t, or chose not to.

Jurgen jumped down from the back of the truck, and crunched across the gravel to join me. Evander’s carefully composed neutral expression flickered for a moment, before settling back into its default setting. Fulcher gestured in the general direction of my aide. ‘This is Commissar Cain’s man. See that he’s taken care of.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Evander turned, with barely visible reluctance, to face Jurgen, while the last crate was manhandled off the back of the truck by a couple of burly servants who seemed on the point of swearing about its weight. ‘If you follow me to the kitchens, I’m sure we can find something to your taste.’

‘I’m sticking with the commissar,’ Jurgen said, inevitably. ‘At least until he’s settled. I’ll find the kitchen when we need it.’ Of which I had no doubt; my aide’s talent for scrounging amounted to a gift from the Emperor, and one from which we’d both benefitted over the years.

‘Then if you’d both care to accompany me,’ Evander said, clearly recognising a lost cause when he saw it, and choosing to address me instead. ‘I’ll show you to your suite.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, following him towards the house, Jurgen falling in at my shoulder as he usually did.

I glanced back. Defroy was gazing after us, his expression pensive, and Fulcher was engaged in some kind of conversation with his bodyguards. Most of the servants were trailing after us, lugging the boxes from the truck, although one seemed to be missing; after a moment I spied a pair of their compatriots carrying it across the lawn between them, directly away from the house. Then we were inside, being fawned over by flunkies, and I saw nothing more.

‘This’ll do,’ Jurgen said, as the major-domo ushered us into the guest suite he’d conducted us to, through the same kind of lavishly decorated corridors I’d walked along in Fulcher’s spire-top residence. Though almost as garish and with a similar overabundance of family crests and Imperial iconography, the overall effect here was less cluttered, and a little more homely; I strongly suspected that this was indeed where the governor felt most comfortable.

‘I’m gratified to hear so,’ Evander said, in studiedly neutral tones, and withdrew with a perfunctory bow, the door clicking closed behind him.

Jurgen was, as usual when stating the obvious (or, in this case, understating it), perfectly correct. As well as a bedroom large enough to have parked a Baneblade in, the suite of rooms assigned to me contained a second one almost as lavish, a balnearia I could have swum laps around, a drawing room furnished in so sumptuous a fashion that anyone daring to sit on the sofa would probably have been completely engulfed in its upholstery, and a smaller sub suite apparently intended for a servant, which would have fitted in its entirety into any of the primary rooms. In all honesty it looked a lot more comfortable than the quarters I’d been given, and I felt a faint stirring of envy as Jurgen took possession of a mattress hard enough to sleep on and a washroom unlikely to be much troubled by his presence.

‘Nice view, anyway,’ I said, gazing out through the large picture windows, across the lawns, and up (or down) at the vast curved face of Ironfound hanging across half the sky.

‘I can get you some refreshment, if you’d like, sir,’ Jurgen offered, his mind as ever on the more practical side of things.

‘Just a snack, perhaps,’ I said, realising that, now he came to mention it, I was beginning to feel a little hungry. ‘And get something for yourself while you’re at it.’

‘Right you are, sir,’ my aide agreed, and disappeared with remarkable alacrity.

Left alone, I took a few minutes to explore my surroundings in a little more detail, and confirm to myself that I really wasn’t comfortable just sitting around waiting for the eldar to attack the orbital or a bunch of slavering cultists to jump out of the wardrobe and attempt to assassinate me. Neither of these things happened, though, and carried on not happening, so I tapped the comm-bead in my ear and reported in to Amberley.

‘We’re at the mansion,’ I told her, ‘and the governor seems safe for now. He even seems to be planning some kind of party.’

‘That would be in accordance with protocol,’ Mott chimed in, confirming my suspicion that, once again, her entire team was listening to our conversation. ‘The governor traditionally marks the transition between residences with a formal gathering.’

‘I’ll keep an eye on things anyway,’ I said. ‘If there are guests arriving, an assassin or a heretic might be able to sneak in among them.’

‘Has Defroy said or done anything suspicious yet?’ Amberley asked.

I thought about that. ‘No,’ I said, uneasy at having him out of my sight for so long. But I could hardly have refused to go with Evander without raising suspicion about my real reasons for being here. ‘I’ll catch up with him again as soon as I can. Has Rakel come up with anything yet?’

‘The singing’s back,’ the psyker told me, and some half-formed thought stuck its head up, before skittering away through my synapses before I could get a proper look at it. ‘Louder than before.’ She hesitated. ‘It sounds frightened.’

‘But can you track it?’ I asked. There was a short pause.

‘We’re trying a new approach,’ Amberley said, when it became obvious that Rakel had become lost in her own private world again. ‘Psychometry. Trying to narrow down our search area by getting her to pinpoint the location on the structural plans Caractacus got for us.’ She sighed. ‘But it’s not going well. The impressions she’s getting are strong, but diffuse.’

‘Then perhaps I can offer a fresh line of enquiry,’ a new voice broke in, Vekkman’s acidic tones eliciting a barely audible groan from Amberley in response to the intrusion. ‘The lead you gave me turned out to be a solid one.’

‘Delighted to hear it,’ Amberley said, sounding faintly confused.

‘The Eternal Faith,’ Vekkman reminded her. ‘The starship the spirit stone you found was ostensibly being smuggled out-system on. I interviewed some of the dock workers who would have transhipped the cargo containers and they admitted that they occasionally diverted items from the smuggling ring you broke up at the behest of someone on the orbital. It seems that a few other spirit stones have already travelled the same route.’

‘To where?’ Amberley asked, her reservations about her fellow inquisitor apparently forgotten.[180]

‘They don’t know,’ Vekkman said. ‘But I have a name. And a rough description.’

‘A name’s good,’ Amberley said, a trifle grudgingly. ‘Maybe my savant can run it down.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ Vekkman agreed. ‘The suspect goes by the name of Vandire, like the notorious apostate – middle-aged in appearance, but he could have had juvenat treatment so I’d go back a century or so to be on the safe side. Well dressed, so either wealthy–’

‘Or working for someone who is,’ I said, making a run for the door as I spoke. ‘I think we’ve just found the traitor in the governor’s household.’

‘Really?’ Vekkman and Amberley spoke simultaneously, sounding equally taken aback; but there was no time to savour the probably unique moment of binaural Inquisitorial astonishment.

‘Fulcher’s major-domo is called Evander,’ I said, ‘and the description’s a match.’ I tapped my vox-bead again. ‘Jurgen. Keep an eye out for Evander. He might be the person we’re looking for.’

‘Very good, sir.’ My aide’s voice was as phlegmatic as ever, though perhaps a little more breathless than usual. ‘I suppose that would explain why he’s just tried to kill me.’

‘What?’ I flung the door open, and glanced up and down the opulent corridor, wondering which direction Jurgen’s unerring instinct for finding unattended provender would have taken him. ‘Where are you?’

‘Right here, sir,’ he responded, accurately but unhelpfully. Fortunately a burst of lasgun fire echoed down the passageway at that point, which settled the question to my satisfaction, and I broke into a sprint, drawing my chainsword and laspistol as I ran.

‘I’m on my way,’ I assured him.

‘So are we,’ Amberley said. ‘If the spirit stones are anywhere on the estate, Rakel should be able to find them.’

Which I supposed was good news, but not my highest priority at that point. The sound of something expensive breaking guided my footsteps round the bend into a side passage, where to my great relief I saw Jurgen, apparently unharmed, crouching behind an overturned settle, his lasgun levelled. The inert form of one of the liveried servants was sprawled across the carpet a few metres away, the intricate floral pattern of which would never be quite the same again, a laspistol still clutched in her twitching hand. Two more were taking what cover they could behind an occasional table[181] and a display cabinet of what had presumably once been an exceptionally fine selection of ceramics before a lasgun burst reduced them to flinders, while Evander bobbed about behind the wall at the other end of the corridor, occasionally sticking his head out to see what was going on, before ducking back again like a startled sump rat at every loud noise.

‘Was it something you said?’ I asked as I joined my aide, and his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

‘I don’t think so, sir,’ he said, taking the flippant remark entirely at face value, which after all the years I’d known him should hardly have come as a surprise. ‘I only asked the way to the kitchen, and he tried to stick a knife in my ribs.’ Which would have been very unwise. Jurgen might not have been the most prepossessing trooper in the Guard, but his reflexes were second to none; now I came to look at Evander more closely, his nose was bloody, probably from the impact of my aide’s forehead, and his right arm was hanging at the sort of awkward angle which speaks of dislocation or a fracture. ‘I would have finished him off, but I thought the inquisitor might like a word with him, then these other three turned up and it all got a bit messy.’

‘You thought right,’ I assured him. Amberley would definitely have a few questions for the homicidal butler, and I presumed Vekkman would too, if she let him get anywhere near him once he was in custody. I popped off a couple of laspistol rounds at the lurker behind the china cabinet, reducing a few of the shards inside to even smaller splinters, and provoking a flurry of panic-stricken las-bolts in return. Jurgen retaliated with a burst from his lasgun, which chewed the tottering structure to pieces, showering the luckless gunsel with razor-edged fragments as it collapsed on top of him. A shrill keening emerged from beneath the debris for a moment, before I silenced it with a well-aimed las-bolt to the partially visible head I could now see. Anyone less deserving of the Emperor’s peace[182] I found it hard to imagine, but the noise was beginning to get on my nerves.

That was enough, the remaining lackey turning and running as his nerve broke – which was a huge mistake, as he was too panicked to pop off a few las-bolts in our general direction to keep our heads down as he fled.

‘Trakki shoot,’ Jurgen muttered, putting a vengeful las-bolt through the obligingly presented shoulder blades, before turning to me with a faintly troubled expression. ‘You don’t think the inquisitor would have wanted a word with that one too, do you?’

‘I doubt it,’ I assured him, to his evident relief. ‘Not while we can still bag the ringleader.’ Who was now legging it with all possible speed, if the scuffling sounds from the end of the corridor were any indication. Vaulting over the obstructing settle,[183] I dashed in pursuit, my aide at my heels.

We caught up with Evander surprisingly fast, even though he knew the corridors intimately and Jurgen and I had only the sketchiest idea of where we were going. For one thing, my instinctive knack for staying orientated in a three-dimensional labyrinth seemed just as reliable when the floors were infested with carpet instead of rubble, and the walls with panelling and portraits instead of rust and the nests of things you didn’t want to poke – and for another he was making as much noise as a drunken ork.

‘Help! Help!’ he bleated, as Jurgen and I pelted after him round a right-angled bend, only to find ourselves facing a detachment of household guards, their hellguns levelled. ‘They’ve gone mad! They’re killing everyone!’

Reflexes honed in more firefights than I care to recall cut in, and Jurgen and I leapt for our lives, taking refuge behind the walls of the corridor we’d just left an instant before a volley of high-powered las-bolts cratered the panelling opposite the passage mouth and shredded a rather nice tapestry depicting the martyrdom of the Emperor at the hands of Horus.

My aide began to unsling the melta, and I forestalled him with a gesture. ‘Bad idea,’ I said. Fulcher might be understanding about the damage to his home if it was inflicted in self-defence, and we had a real live heretic to corroborate that under interrogation, but unleashing a melta on his retainers (and barbequing our alibi into the bargain) would probably hack him off considerably. Not to mention the mess it would make.

Jurgen nodded, let the support weapon go, and started rummaging through his collection of pouches. ‘I’ve got a few frag grenades?’ he suggested hopefully, holding one up for my inspection.

‘Not yet,’ I said. I adjusted my cap to its severest angle, stowed my weapons, and strode as confidently as I could counterfeit around the corner of the corridor. Fortunately, as I’d hoped, the household troops were sufficiently disciplined to hold their fire until they’d assessed the threat I presented, instead of blazing away at the first sign of movement.[184] I raised my voice. ‘Hold your fire!’

‘Shoot him! Shoot him!’ Evander yammered, but as I’d expected no one was taking orders from a civilian.

‘Call Commander Defroy,’ I said. ‘He’ll vouch for me. And if he won’t, Inquisitor Vail will.’

‘The commander’s on his way,’ the squad leader said, the barrel of her weapon not wavering by so much as a millimetre, before the second part of my statement percolated through her synapses. ‘Did you just say inquisitor?’

I nodded. ‘You must have heard the rumours,’ I said, ‘and they’re true. She’s here, on the orbital, and making her way to the mansion as we speak.’ No point complicating things by mentioning Vekkman, who probably wouldn’t thank me for blowing his cover if he didn’t want to break it himself.

‘He’s lying!’ Evander screeched. ‘He’s here to assassinate the governor!’

‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘the inquisitor herself sent me here to ensure his safety.’ Which wasn’t exactly true, but it was close enough, and the squaddies didn’t need to know any of the details.

The squad leader’s eyebrows furrowed as she tried to work this out. ‘Why you?’ she said. ‘You’re a commissar. Why aren’t you with your regiment, fighting the eldar?’

‘Because when an inquisitor asks you for a favour,’ I said, ‘the only possible answer is “yes”.’ For a moment I found myself wondering how Kasteen and the others were getting on in my absence, but as it was pointless to speculate, and I knew them well enough to be sure that they’d be acquitting themselves well, I dismissed the thought at once. ‘Besides, if anything happens to the governor, the defenders’ morale will plummet. Keeping him safe is a vital military objective.’ Actually, I rather doubted that, given that there was undoubtedly an heir or two poised to step in as soon as the throne became vacant, but this woman and the troopers with her were sworn to defend the man: hearing their mission validated by a Hero of the Imperium was the fastest and surest way to get them on side. And so it proved. Slowly, she lowered the hellgun, her subordinates following suit.

Evander seemed on the point of spontaneous combustion. ‘They’ve killed the governor’s servants! They tried to kill me! Shoot them, for Throne’s sake!’

The squad leader glanced from one of us to the other, clearly weighing our relative trustworthiness, and deciding to err on the side of caution. Her hellgun, though lowered, I noticed, was still being held ready for immediate use on either of us. Which was good; that showed her instincts were sound, and she wasn’t about to take anything for granted. She turned back to me. ‘Why were you chasing him?’

‘Because he’s a traitor, and a heretic,’ I said calmly, ‘who panicked when he thought we were on to him.’ Actually, now I came to think about it, I couldn’t see any logical reason for him to have attacked Jurgen when he did; all my suspicions had been focused on Defroy, and if he’d just kept his head, and continued to fade into the background, he could have expected to evade detection indefinitely. After all, he had no way of knowing that Vekkman had picked up enough information down at the docks for me to have identified him. But, as I’d observed on many occasions, anyone turning to Chaos was an Emperor short of a tarot pack to begin with; perhaps he’d jumped to the conclusion that he’d been rumbled, and just acted accordingly.

‘That’s ridiculous!’ Evander expostulated, sounding about as convincing as an ecclesiarch in a bordello claiming he’d just dropped in to collect a donation for the temple roof repair fund.

‘Is it?’ I narrowed my eyes, in the manner I’d long perfected while dealing with the defaulters in the regiment who’d come up on charges, and been foolish enough to offer an excuse with a hole in it big enough to have waltzed a Titan through. ‘Then why were you collecting interdicted eldar artefacts?’

The blood drained from his face. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said.

‘I’m talking about the spirit stones you collected from the transhipment docks,’ I said. ‘Probably for your cult to use in some blasphemous ritual.’ I paused theatrically, waiting for a reply, but the wretched fellow was beyond coherent speech by this time; his mouth moved, but nothing came out beyond variations of buh and duh, interspersed with the occasional squeak. I moved in for the coup de grace. ‘Not that I care. But the inquisitor will want all the details. And she’ll get them in the end. They always do.’

Looking back, I only had myself to blame for what happened next. The household troops were hanging on every word by this point and, savouring the sensation of being the centre of attention, I just couldn’t resist glancing at them for an instant to gauge how my performance was going down.

And that momentary break in eye contact was all it took. Up until that point Evander had been petrified, paralysed by indecision, nailed to the spot by my apparently detailed knowledge of what he’d been up to. Now he sprang with the alacrity of one of the face-eaters we’d encountered in the depths of the underhive, snatching at the hellgun of the trooper nearest to him. Taken by surprise, the trooper’s finger tightened reflexively on the trigger, unleashing a full burst[185] into Evander’s torso.

Which promptly, and quite naturally, disintegrated into gobbets of charred goo and gristle, that collapsed to the floor along with a tangle of momentarily flailing limbs and a head bearing a faintly surprised-looking expression.

The stench of overcooked meat became overlaid with a more familiar odour, as Jurgen ambled up to join me. He stared down at the mess on the carpet with a bemused expression.

‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘this is going to take some explaining to the inquisitor.’

Twenty-six

‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ Amberley said in a conciliatory tone, which stopped some way short of an assurance that she wouldn’t be doing it for me. We’d met on a terrace outside the mansion which, by this time, was becoming crowded with guests arriving for Fulcher’s little shindig. Quite where they’d all come from and how they’d managed to turn up at such short notice was beyond me, but I suppose the governor wasn’t really someone you said no to.[186] We were attracting a predictable number of furtive glances from both partygoers and the servants attending to them, although – equally unsurprisingly, given the power armour she still wore – no one cared to interrupt our conversation. ‘Following up his contacts within the household should be simple enough.’

‘I’m already working on that,’ Defroy assured her. I still wasn’t sure whether Evander revealing himself as the traitor had entirely removed the guard commander from Amberley’s suspect list,[187] but we needed his expertise now, so I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. He nodded an assurance at Amberley, then his eyes roved on, watching the crowd even as he carried on speaking. I had to admit I was quietly impressed; not many people could talk to an inquisitor while keeping their minds on the job. ‘It’ll take a little time, but we’ll round them all up, you can be sure.’

‘Can I?’ Amberley asked. ‘How very reassuring.’

Defroy nodded again, pretending to miss the sarcasm, and continued to scan the crowd for any potential trouble. ‘It should help our investigation into the attempted assassination of the commissar, too,’ he added. ‘It must have been orchestrated by one of Evander’s contacts in the spire establishment. Narrows down the suspects to a far more comfortable number.’

‘How very gratifying.’ Vekkman materialised from the shadows. ‘Where are the rest of your acolytes?’

‘Elsewhere,’ Amberley said, in a tone which was meant to close the subject. Fortunately Vekkman took the hint.

‘What about Rakel?’ I asked. The psyker was with us, staying as far from Jurgen as possible, but even that didn’t seem to help much. She was slouched in the corner, her elegant purple gown looking as though the contents had been stuffed in without much regard to its shape or capacity, her eyes unfocused. Not surprisingly, she was muttering to herself, the only phrases I could make out being ‘nearly here,’ and ‘it’s coming,’ neither of which I found particularly reassuring. ‘Has she located the spirit stones?’

‘They’re here,’ Rakel said, waving an arm which took in most of our immediate surroundings. ‘Close. And screaming in terror.’ Which wasn’t exactly the kind of thing I wanted to be hearing.

‘Can you narrow it down any more?’ I asked, but she’d returned to her own private universe, and I might as well have saved my breath.

‘There’s too much going on,’ Amberley amplified, echoing the gesture – with specific reference, so far as I could see, to the partygoers thronging the gardens. ‘All these minds are overwhelming her.’

‘But she seems convinced that something’s about to happen,’ I said, the palms of my hands beginning to itch, as they so often do when something’s going seriously wrong but I can’t quite put my finger on what. ‘We need to find the governor, and get him to safety.’ Which would give me the perfect excuse to get away from there as well, before it all went ploin-shaped.

Defroy laughed. ‘I know precisely where he is, commissar. I’d hardly be doing my job if I didn’t. And he’s as safe in the maze as anywhere.’

‘The maze.’ The thought I’d had before, and been unable to pin down, came trotting back, dragging a very unwelcome realisation with it. ‘The spirit stones are in the middle of the maze!’

‘How do you know?’ Vekkman asked, and I glanced at Amberley, wondering how I could explain the certainty I felt without revealing Jurgen’s secret to one of her fellow inquisitors.

‘There was a crate among the governor’s effects which was taken to the maze instead of the house,’ I said. ‘It stuck in my mind, because it was the one Jurgen was sitting on.’

Amberley nodded, and to my relief I realised she’d got it. The majority of the stones had fallen out of Rakel’s perception as we boarded the truck, and back into it again as we disembarked. If my aide’s unique aura had somehow blocked whatever she was sensing while he was close to it, then it had to have been in the crate he was sitting on.

Defroy, of course, had no idea of the significance of the exchange. ‘There’s nothing unusual in that,’ he said. ‘The governor always entertains his special guests in the heart of the maze. It’s traditional.’

‘The maze people occasionally disappear without trace in?’ I said, inflecting my voice with a trace of levity for the benefit of anyone who might have overheard.

Defroy laughed. ‘Those are just stories,’ he said. ‘I told you, the trick to finding your way around in there is childishly simple. No one can really get lost.’ But a quick glance at Amberley and Vekkman was enough to reassure me that they’d realised precisely what I’d meant. Chaos cults tend to go in for sacrifices, and however careful they are, little ripples of rumour and disquiet usually ensue, even if no one takes them seriously or recognises their true significance.

‘We need to get to the maze, now,’ Vekkman said decisively, and Amberley nodded.

Defroy looked confused, and a little petulant. ‘And you’re suddenly in charge because?’ he asked.

‘Because the Emperor says so,’ Vekkman snapped, revealing the electoo in the palm of his hand.

Defroy boggled at the universally recognised symbol of Inquisitorial authority for a moment, then back at Amberley. ‘I thought she was the inquisitor,’ he said.

‘She is. So am I.’

‘Hurry.’ Rakel looked up, her expression even more haunted than usual, the edge of fear in her voice all the more disturbing for her unusual lucidity. ‘Before it’s too late.’

‘Right,’ I said, reaching for my weapons and adopting the sort of resolute pose expected of me in this kind of situation, though with any luck the inquisitors would lead the way. I turned to Defroy. ‘Better get a squad or two of your people over there too.’

‘No.’ Amberley forestalled him before he could issue the order. ‘We’ll handle this ourselves.’

‘If you say so,’ Defroy agreed, clearly affronted by the implied slur on his troopers’ martial abilities.

‘I do. If there’s warpcraft involved, the fewer people exposed to it the better.’ She nodded at me as she spoke, and I divined her meaning at once: however comforting the extra firepower they might provide would be, she wanted the number of potential witnesses to Jurgen’s remarkable abilities kept to a minimum.

‘Good point.’ Defroy vacillated, thoroughly spooked by the casual reference to warpcraft, but determined to do his duty whatever that involved. ‘But at least let me get the maze sealed off once you’re in there.’

‘Sound suggestion,’ I said, reasoning that he’d be easier to keep on side if he was feeling appreciated. ‘The coven we found on Drechia had just summoned a daemon. Don’t want anything like that getting loose.’

‘No, we don’t.’ He considered this for a moment, looking a little green around the gills, then swept his gaze across the merry throng of partygoers. ‘And I’d better get the guests evacuated.’

‘Yes, you’d better,’ Amberley agreed. She glanced at the gibbering psyker. ‘And take care of Rakel.’ Who was clearly in no fit state to accompany us.

‘Of course.’ Now he’d got a definite job to do, Defroy was looking a lot happier. So, leaving him to it, the rest of us set off towards the maze.

The closer we got to it, the more sinister it seemed, the dense foliage looming over us like a wall of small, dark interlocking leaves. Cheerful partygoers in garish costumes, many of them carrying drinks or finger food, mingled and chattered around us, oblivious to the danger they were in, while faint strains of music drifted from the direction of the house, where the dancing had already begun. Blue-and-gold clad guards were beginning to fan out through the crowd, leaving little ripples of consternation in their wake, and I felt a faint stirring of relief at the thought that Defroy was already on top of things.

Which was more than I can say for myself. Remembering what we’d found in the caverns of Drechia, I was understandably reluctant to hurl myself at what looked suspiciously like another nest of cultists.

‘Do you think Fulcher knows what’s going on?’ I asked, and the two inquisitors turned identical expressions of pitying surprise in my direction.

‘Try to keep up, Ciaphas,’ Amberley said. ‘He’s the cult magister. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense.’

‘Of course it is,’ Vekkman added, in case I wasn’t feeling quite stupid enough. ‘Who else could sneak an assassin into his household without leaving any trace an experienced investigator could uncover?’

‘And who had the authority to order the harvesting of spirit stones from the eldar casualties?’ Amberley added rhetorically. ‘The man who had a crate full of them in his personal baggage.’

‘That must be why he took the risk of running the blockade,’ I said, trying to show I was catching up at last. ‘To bring them here. But why now?’

‘I think we’re about to find out,’ Amberley said and, with a nod to the guards standing sentry at the archway leading within, strode past them and into the green-flecked twilight.

Twenty-seven

We all followed, and I found myself surrounded by high, green hedges, with a narrow slot of the dome above us and the planet beyond visible above my head. Neatly mown turf, short and springy, was under my feet, and I took a few cautious steps, while the others crowded in behind me. The chatter of the party outside was muted, already almost inaudible, making every breath and rustle of clothing sound preternaturally loud.

‘Which way?’ Vekkman asked, and I gestured in the direction Defroy had told me about.

‘Keep taking the second left, followed by the first right,’ I said. ‘According to Defroy, that should take us straight to the centre.’

‘Seems clear enough,’ he agreed, striding out confidently in the direction I’d indicated.

All went well at first, and we made good progress, although the air between the hedges seemed thick and cloying – an effect I’d initially put down to the lack of any breeze, and the narrowness of the passage, which was barely wide enough to walk down in single file. Since Vekkman had decided to take the lead, which was fine by me, I followed, drawing my sidearms as I did so, finding their familiar weight distinctly comforting. Jurgen, of course, was right behind me, something I was aware of without needing to turn round to look, and Amberley followed hard on his heels. I wasn’t sure if anyone behind me had drawn their weapons too,[188] but Vekkman now had a bolt pistol in one hand, with the self-confident air of a man perfectly prepared to use it, and a curious obsidian staff, about the length of my chainsword, in the other. I’d never seen anything like it before, but it looked sinister, somehow, a faint nimbus of abnatural energies playing about it.

‘Can you smell that?’ Jurgen asked, and I nodded.

‘I can,’ I said, my sense of unease growing exponentially. A thick, cloying scent was hanging in the air, mingled with that of damp leaves and clipped foliage. ‘Like the tunnels around the temple we found on Drechia.’

‘Really?’ Vekkman glanced back at me, his face perturbed. ‘Then we must be getting close.’

‘I think we are,’ I said. ‘Look at the leaves.’

He peered at the nearest hedge, and nodded slowly. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said. The vegetation had changed, taking on a more fleshy aspect, like tiny green tongues; as I stared at the nearest it seemed to move slightly, curling in a fashion which seemed faintly and repulsively lascivious. ‘Best get on, then.’

‘Better had,’ I agreed, and we picked up the pace, through passages which continued to change and mutate the deeper we penetrated into the heart of this unhallowed place. Now green was giving way to a thousand shades of pink and brown, throbbing with unholy life – coiling and writhing around us, reaching out beseechingly as we passed.

‘Second left, first right,’ Vekkman muttered, no doubt trying to keep his mind on the job. The cloying scent was growing thicker with every footstep, making us all light-headed, and I found myself grateful for Jurgen’s proximity, his familiar earthy aroma undercutting it and keeping me grounded. ‘Second left… Stop! Dead end.’ He turned his head, scanning our surroundings, looking faintly confused. ‘I must have miscounted.’

‘You didn’t,’ I said, a thrill of alarm coursing through me. I’d been counting too, and I’d wager that the rest of us had as well.

‘Back up,’ Amberley suggested, turning round carefully, keeping as far from the palpitating walls as she could. ‘Retrace our steps.’

We set off back the way we’d come, Amberley now in the lead. After a couple of twists and turns she slowed her pace, glancing around with a distinctly hesitant air.

‘There should be a side passage here,’ she said. ‘But it’s gone.’

‘Warpcraft,’ Vekkman said, sounding irritated rather than afraid. ‘The space is changing around us.’

‘That way,’ I said, pointing at the nearest hedge; my knack for remaining orientated still seemed as reliable as ever, even in an environment as eldritch as this. I activated my chainsword. ‘If the path’s blocked, we’ll just have to make our own.’ I swung the humming blade at the wall of vegetation, hacking through it as easily as the body of a gretchin – even more easily, in fact, as there were no bits of bone to check the whirling teeth, even for a millisecond. Pieces of twig, shredded leaves and gobbets of sap sprayed in all directions as I carved my way through, creating a gap into the next lane which widened appreciably as the intertwining bushes writhed backwards out of the way of the screaming blade.

‘Good idea! Keep going!’ Amberley urged me, so I did, slicing inexorably through one hedge after another, while the others hurried in my wake, crowding though the holes I’d carved before they closed up again like healing wounds.

‘This might be faster, sir,’ Jurgen suggested, cradling the melta, and tempted though I was, I shook my head.

‘It probably would. But if it set this lot on fire we’d go up like kindling.’ Which, on the whole, was a pretty compelling argument for doing it the hard way. And I had to admit, harder was what it was getting. The hedges were getting more and more flesh-like, oozing viscid secretions, and now my whirling blade seemed to be drawing blood rather than sap. The going underfoot was getting harder too, slippery and uneven, and I fought to keep my footing firm as I advanced.

Then, abruptly, I was through, stumbling into the wide glade at the heart of the labyrinth in a spray of blood and viscera, the others hard on my heels. The walls around us had completed their transmogrification, becoming palpitating flesh in their entirety, limned with pulsating veins which formed shapes suggestive of images of staggering depravity. Images which, in many cases, were being enthusiastically enacted by men, women and androgynes of all shapes and sizes. It made the debauches I’d witnessed on Drechia look like a gathering of tech-priests debating a fragment of machine-code.

As I tore my eyes away from the unedifying spectacle in search of an immediate threat, a strange sense of disorientation swept over me. After a moment of puzzlement, I realised that the space into which we’d intruded seemed bigger than it should have been, apparently covering an area larger than the exterior of the maze we’d entered such a short time before.

Like the cavern we’d stumbled into on Drechia, the cultists were arranged about a central altar, at which dimly seen figures muttered and capered with an air of fell purpose.

‘Yanbel.’ Amberley tapped her comm-bead. ‘Send the message.’

‘I’ll try,’ the voice of the tech-priest assured her, ‘but I can’t be sure I’ve broken the encryption on their system. And even if I have, they may not listen.’

‘They’ll listen to this,’ Amberley said, and added a few incomprehensible phrases in the lilting eldar tongue. ‘Transmit that.’

‘Consider it done,’ Yanbel said, and cut the link. I might have wondered what the cryptic exchange was all about, but under the circumstances, as you’ll no doubt appreciate, my attention was elsewhere. I fell naturally into a guard position with my humming chain-blade, and raised my laspistol, searching for a target. Fortunately none of the orgiasts seemed to have much attention to spare for our abrupt arrival, although that was a state of affairs none of us expected to last for much longer, and we formed up in a tight defensive knot.

‘There are the stones, sir,’ Jurgen pointed out helpfully, raising his voice a little to cut through those of the celebrants, which were beginning to mingle into a single, unified chant. I felt the palms of my hands tingling again; this was a sound I’d heard far too recently to be unaware of the implications.

My aide was right. Dozens of the shimmering crystals had been piled up in a heap on a raised dais at the exact centre of the maze, surrounded by writhing, gibbering cultists. They glowed just as brightly as before, their colours shifting and fluctuating in the same manner as the one Amberley had shown me, but something seemed different about them; faint threads of darkness were drifting across them now, like dribbles of ink in water. At first I wondered if I was imagining it, but gradually the blemishes spread, like a fungal infection slowly consuming a rotting ploin.

‘This is bad,’ Vekkman said, raising the obsidian rod. The energy discharges were more visible now, racing up and down it, and I glanced round to make sure that Jurgen was far enough away not to affect whatever it was supposed to do. After all, this was Vekkman’s area of expertise, and our very souls probably depended on it. ‘They’re generating too much warp energy for the null rod to dissipate.’ And, for the first time, he and Amberley exchanged a glance of complete mutual agreement. ‘So we’ll just have to disrupt the summoning the old fashioned way.’ At which point he opened fire with his bolt pistol, targeting the nearest cultist.

‘What?’ I said, more than a little taken aback by this development. The memory of being swarmed by the cultists on Drechia was still vivid, and provoking these ones into attacking us seemed unwise in the extreme.

Vekkman looked at me, his eyes cold even for an inquisitor.

‘They’re opening a pathway for a daemon. One that makes the last specimen you encountered seem like a gyrinx kitten. Our only chance of saving this world from damnation is to stem the flow of energy from their corrupted souls before it’s too late.’

‘What he said,’ Amberley agreed, opening up with the storm bolter in the forearm of her suit. The two inquisitors began to advance behind a barrage of bolts, felling cultists all around them as they went.

‘Wait,’ I cautioned, being completely ignored for my pains. ‘Why are the stones here?’ They were the key to all this, of that I was certain, although I couldn’t for the life of me see how.

‘She comes! She comes!’ An ecstatic shriek cut across the sound of chanting and gunfire, and a capering figure clad only in blasphemous sigils daubed in substances I didn’t care to speculate about the origins of leapt onto the dais in front of the heap of shimmering, ailing stones. It was Fulcher, although fortunately Amberley was too far away and too occupied with despatching heretics to say ‘I told you so.’ Even before the echoes of the governor’s cry had time to die away, the air directly above the heap of stones crackled with energy, then ripped, and something inchoate stepped or slithered through. My breath stilled, a sense of soul-stifling horror rippling through me at the sheer blasphemous wrongness of whatever it was intruding on the real world. I glanced at Amberley and Vekkman, who ceased their butchery to turn and stare at it, then at Jurgen, who simply raised the melta he carried and waited for an order to fire.

This wasn’t like the daemon we’d seen on Drechia, although something about it suggested a common origin, the kind of kinship you might notice between a gretchin and an ork, say. There was nothing tangible about it for the eye to actually fix on; rather the suggestion of a presence, which hovered in the air with a palpable sense of gloating anticipation. Fulcher fell to his knees, his arms outstretched, his face upturned towards the nebulous horror floating over the altar. His voice quavered with the passionate eagerness of the truly demented.

‘In Slaanesh’s name I welcome thee. In Slaanesh’s name I bind thee–’ Then, with one voice, the cultists screamed.

Fulcher was the first to go, and serve him right if you ask me, blood, flesh and bone flowing like candle wax as he was sucked into the void where the thing hovered just above his head. Then the cultists closest to the dais were consumed, their intertwined bodies melting together as they were drawn out into one melded gobbet of writhing flesh, which grafted itself onto and engulfed what was left of the erstwhile governor. After that the process accelerated; before any of the heretics had time to realise how comprehensively they’d been betrayed, they were snatched up and added to the roiling mass of floating flesh. Even the bodies of those summarily executed by the inquisitors were seized on, adding their scattered blood and bone to the ghastly conglomeration.

‘Those rocks are getting darker,’ Jurgen said, while Amberley and Vekkman redirected their fire at the Chimera-sized tumour floating in the air above our heads. He was right, too, the dark patches I’d noted before spreading even faster across and within them. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I’m consuming the souls they contain.’ A mellifluous voice drifted across the open space, and I felt a thrill of sheer terror coursing down my back. It was horribly familiar, all the more so for the number of times I’d heard it in my dreams recently. The floating mass of flesh began to shift again, taking on a more defined shape, different to the one I remembered in my nightmares about the confrontation on Adumbria, and completely unlike the human witch I’d first encountered on Slawkenberg, but somehow echoing and amplifying both. ‘Which makes me a thousand times stronger than the last time we met.’ A ripple of laughter escaped the partially formed mouth, so light-hearted and alluring that I found my mouth beginning to smile in response before my rational mind clamped down hard on the impulse. ‘So you can forget all about sending me back to the warp this time, even with that horrid little friend of yours here.’

‘Is that who I think it is, sir?’ the horrid little friend in question asked, frowning in perplexity, and aiming the melta as he did so. ‘Only I thought they weren’t supposed to be able to come back for a thousand years after you banished them.’

‘It’s Emeli all right,’ I said, as the towering daemon solidified completely and stepped down off the dais. I fought down the terror which threatened to overwhelm me as her shapely hoof struck the ground, envying my aide his simple and unshakable faith that the Emperor protects, and would continue to do so even in circumstances as dire as this. The inquisitors were holding their ground, although I knew Amberley well enough to be aware of the effort this would be costing her.

The spirit stones were flickering more feebly now, as their essence continued to drain into the hideously alluring abomination. ‘Don’t ask me how.’

‘Rules are for the little people,’ Emeli said dismissively, and Jurgen fired the melta. Like the bolts of the inquisitors, however, the burst of ravening energy had no discernible effect, beyond the momentary appearance of a minute blemish on the smooth, sweet-scented flesh. Which, I suppose, neatly put paid to the faint hope I’d clung to, that my aide’s presence might weaken her enough for a concentrated barrage of heavy weapons fire to despatch her back to the warp like it had the last time. She frowned at Jurgen. ‘I don’t know why I even bothered to tell my little pet to have you killed.’

Strangely, I felt a flash of petulance at that point, as I realised that the assassin in the air car and his confederates had never been after me at all, and that my aide had been the real target all along. Fulcher had even remarked on his absence at the conclusion of the affair, although the significance of that hadn’t struck me at the time.

‘At least you’re consistent in the quality of the help you find,’ I sniped, hoping to goad her into some kind of rash action we could take advantage of. Not the safest or most sensible plan, of course, but it had worked before, and right then I was out of any other ideas. Besides, if I’m honest, it’s somewhat galling to escape an attempt on your life only to discover that you were just meant to be collateral damage in the first place, so I suppose a bit of pettishness on my part was only to be expected.

‘I take what I can get,’ the daemon said, with a decorous shrug. ‘And what I get now is this world, and everyone on it to play with, and the souls of the eldar infesting it to feed to Slaanesh. Not to mention a door to the webway for when I get bored.’

‘Enjoy it while you can,’ I said, reflecting that she probably would, and that there wasn’t a damn thing any of us could do about it, but at least I’d go down fighting. Besides, Amberley seemed to be having a fairly vehement conversation with someone over her vox-link, so the more of Emeli’s attention I could attract, the better her chances of pulling off whatever it was she was trying to achieve. I caught the phrase ‘if so much as a single one fires, you’ll all answer to the Inquisition,’ then my attention was entirely back on the daemon. ‘Jurgen, with me,’ I said, knowing he’d follow without question or hesitation, then leapt at the monstrous form, my chainsword whirling.

Editorial Note:

At which point it seems incumbent upon me to insert a further piece of explanatory text from another source, without which the next part of Cain’s account is likely to seem wildly improbable.

From The Eldar: a History of Their Presence in the Ultima Segmentum, and Some Musings Upon Possible Means of Their Eradication, by Baltazar Thromp, 997 M41

With the hindsight of history, we can only speculate what unfathomable motives drove the eldar to take their last desperate gamble. But take it they did, thereby sealing their fate, and ensuring the ignominious defeat which inevitably awaits all who dare to challenge the might of the Emperor and His stalwart warriors.

Without warning, the entire eldar fleet left their positions, closing in as one on Skyside Seventeen. To the consternation of all who witnessed it, however, the defenders held their fire, despite the multiplicity of targets thus presented.

Unopposed, the xenos interlopers began an assault against the very centre of Imperial power among the orbitals: the residence of the governor himself.

Twenty-eight

‘That’s more like it,’ Emeli said, with a liquid laugh of pure enchantment; had Jurgen not been so close, insulating me against the worst of her daemonic aura, I felt sure I would have succumbed to the allure of her hideous charms by now. Even knowing that to give in would forfeit my very soul, the urge to submit was almost overwhelming, held at bay only by my tenacious instinct for self-preservation. ‘You always did play hard to get.’

‘You never did,’ I riposted, somewhat ungallantly, and swung my chainsword at a shapely calf studded with shimmering scales, the knee surmounting it roughly on a level with my face. The blade whirled through the plundered flesh of which it was composed without leaving any trace of its passage, muscle and skin knitting together instantly behind the whining teeth, and I took an involuntary step backwards as the unspent momentum tugged at my balance. Actinic light flared as Jurgen triggered the melta, at point-blank range this time, and a small char mark appeared for an instant before vanishing without a trace.

Emeli laughed again, with a trace of vindictive glee. ‘You see? You can’t hurt me at all any more.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ I said, out of sheer bravado rather than any conviction, I must admit. The last time she’d taken physical form, getting close enough to her to bring that body within Jurgen’s warp-dampening aura had allowed us to inflict a modicum of damage on it, but this one seemed utterly impervious to the effect of his gift.

An insistent little thought began to scratch at my synapses. If that was true, and Jurgen really wasn’t a threat to her any more, why had she instructed Fulcher to have him killed? There had to be a reason…

‘I would,’ the daemon said, with a degree of preternatural smugness which should have been infuriating, but which the glamour surrounding her somehow rendered strangely endearing. ‘And when I’ve consumed these completely, I’ll be invincible.’ I glanced apprehensively behind her to the pile of spirit stones. All were infested with the creeping darkness, the majority of them more than half engulfed already; a few had gone almost entirely black, with only a few faint flickers of light still clinging on desperately in their deepest recesses. Her voice became low and seductive, caressing my very bones with its cadence. ‘It’s not too late, you know. We can still be friends. Let bygones be bygones, come and play with me. You know you want to.’ And part of me did, I have to admit – lured in by those seductive rhythms.

But most of me didn’t. I’d seen what happened to mortals foolish enough to trust in the promises of daemons before, most recently the ones whose mortal remains she now inhabited.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘but I’m not interested in those kinds of games. If you had a regicide board, on the other hand–’

I took another fruitless swipe at the leg in front of me, with the same disheartening lack of effect as before. A peevish expression appeared on the daemon’s face, and with movements as lithe as the most skilful of dancers she raised her leg and stamped down at where I was standing. The deck plates beneath the metre or so of soil covering them buckled from the impact, creating a small, but somehow elegant, crater. If I hadn’t dived out of the way at the last moment that would have been it for me, reduced to a small stain, but as it was I rolled and came back to my feet, cracking off a couple of shots from my laspistol as I did so. Which, predictably, did nothing beyond annoying her, but if that was the best I could do for the time being I’d just have to settle for that.

‘Avaunt, in the Emperor’s name!’ Vekkman bellowed, giving up on the bolt pistol, and charging in with the crackling staff, swinging it as though it were a blade. At the same time Amberley, now acting in concert with her fellow inquisitor, triggered the jump pack of her power armour, soaring into the air, and emptying the magazine of her storm bolter full in the daemon’s hideously alluring visage.

For a moment I dared to hope that their combined might would somehow be enough. As Vekkman’s sorcerous weapon struck, the flesh of Emeli’s leg grew momentarily insubstantial, evanescing into sweet-smelling vapour, and the barrage of explosive projectiles pureed a couple of eyes and a flawless cheek. Then, with a shriek of rage, she lashed out with one of her tongues, striking Amberley from the air; the impact crazed the ceramite of the armour’s breastplate, and sent its wearer crashing to the ground.

My heart seemed to stop for a moment – but inquisitors are made of sterner stuff than most, and after an eternal second or so Amberley began to stir, the servos of her suit making harsh whining sounds as the damaged joints ground against one other in her efforts to rise.

Vekkman was still shouting, something in High Gothic full of sibilants and glottal stops, laying about him with the null rod, but with Amberley out of the way – and Jurgen and I apparently no threat at all – he became the natural focus of Emeli’s ire. A shapely hoof lashed out, sending him spinning – unconscious or dead – across the clearing, the crackling staff flying from his hand. As he dropped it, the daemon’s physical form solidified again, all trace of the physical damage it had suffered fading from its face.

I glanced upwards, seeing Emeli smiling down at me with all the warmth of a raptor spotting something small and furry in the grass, and found myself beseeching the Emperor for a miracle; not that I expected one, but under the circumstances it certainly couldn’t hurt to ask.

But a miracle was precisely what I got. As I hefted my chainsword, taking up a guard position between the daemon and Amberley, the entire dome shook from a series of impacts which felt to me rather too much like heavy weapons fire to be entirely comforting.

A quick glance towards the armourcrys overhead was enough to tell me that this was precisely what it was. The vast bulk of an eldar battleship[189] was keeping station with the orbital, just outside the dome, and beyond it I thought I could make out several more of the distinctive curving hulls. Before I could discern any more, however, I was dazzled by the discharge from one of the ship’s ventral lance batteries, and, once again, the entire dome shook.

This time, however, the shots had done their work, punching a hole through the thick, transparent material. With a roar like an enraged carnosaur the atmosphere began to vent, becoming visible as a plume of ice crystals, which caught the sunlight in a glittering trail I might have found breathtakingly beautiful if it hadn’t been taking my breath quite literally.

‘We have to get out of here!’ I yelled, running across to Amberley and seizing her arm, tugging at the dead weight of her malfunctioning power armour in a probably futile attempt to help her rise. ‘We’ll suffocate!’ My greatcoat was beginning to flap around me, already caught by the rising gusts of the venting atmosphere.

‘No we won’t,’ Amberley said, grasping the situation with gratifying speed and, to my relief, finally regaining her feet. ‘A space this size will take ages to depressurise through a hole that small.’

It didn’t look all that small to me, I have to say, but she seemed calm enough, and giving way to screaming panic wouldn’t do a lot for my reputation, so I took a deep breath and nodded briskly as though I understood what was going on.

‘Eldar!’ Jurgen said, pointing upwards to where a cluster of dots had appeared, plummeting towards us. He raised the melta, trying to track a target.

‘Stand down,’ Amberley said. ‘They’re with us.’

‘They are?’ I asked, in considerable astonishment.

Emeli, if anything, seemed even more confused, raising her head to look at the swooping jetbikes with an air of manifest puzzlement. They were eldar, right enough – the sorcerers we’d seen in the mines of Drechia, or dressed exactly like them if they weren’t. Las-bolts from their pistols began to detonate against the daemon’s flawless flesh, with the same complete lack of effect as our own weapons were having so far as I could see, and their sorcerous spears whirled and danced about it, slashing at her flesh, opening wounds which faded away almost at once as though they’d never been. The daemon jumped, impossibly high, and snatched at the nearest, who evaded the grasping hand by what, from where I was standing, seemed like millimetres. A moment later she crashed back to earth, shaking the ground beneath us.

‘You asked the eldar for help?’ I expostulated, the conversation I’d overheard between Amberley and the tech-priest finally starting to make sense.

‘Of course,’ Amberley said, with the air of patient exasperation common to women all over the galaxy explaining the obvious to the men in their lives. ‘This thing is feeding off the souls of their people.’ Once again I felt I was on the verge of a crucial realisation, but she went on before I could bring it into focus. ‘Why wouldn’t they?’

‘Fair point,’ I conceded, adding a few laspistol bolts of my own to the ongoing eldar barrage, although I didn’t expect it to have any discernible effect, and in this I was far from disappointed. Despite the risk of attracting Emeli’s attention again, I thought I ought to show willing in front of an inquisitor; as it turned out, however, the irked daemon was too busy trying to swat the swooping eldar to take much notice of me, at least for the time being. ‘But they’re going to need a lot more than that to take her down.’

‘And they’ve got it,’ Amberley said, glancing upwards to the breach in the dome. Another dot was falling, growing larger with every passing second. I expected it to swerve, or break its fall like the others, but it just kept plummeting towards us.

‘He’s leaving it a bit–’ I began, then broke off as the thing slammed into the daemon without slowing at all, mashing her into the deck, crushing and bursting flesh and bone as it did so. It seemed Emeli wasn’t quite as invincible as she’d thought she was. ‘What the hell is that?’

Whatever it was, the thing must have stood twice as tall as a man, at the very least. In contrast to the bright colours I generally associated with the eldar, however, it was dull of hue, composed of dark unpolished metal, and even from this distance I could feel the furnace heat radiating from it. My first guess, that it was some kind of Dreadnought, was clearly wide of the mark.

‘It’s complicated,’ Amberley said.

‘Is it alive?’ I asked. The thing was looking at us with a gleam of malign intelligence, but its stillness was preternatural, as though a statue had somehow been imbued with will and intellect.[190]

‘Sort of,’ Amberley said, unhelpfully, but before I could pursue the topic, the flesh of Emeli’s new body began to reconstruct itself, flowing smoothly back into its former configuration. ‘They call it an avatar.’

The avatar took up a guard position, moving lithely through a series of defensive postures, an ancient-looking pole arm encrusted with runes locked in its metal hands.

‘That was mean,’ Emeli said, flexing her newly reconstituted neck, and lashing out at the thing with staggering speed and power. The avatar dodged the blow, its comparatively small stature[191] a distinct advantage in that regard, and lashed out with its archaic-seeming weapon. The blade bit deep into the daemon’s thigh, and Emeli squealed, more in outrage than in pain, lashing out again with a kick which sent the avatar reeling. The wound it had inflicted began to knit together, but a good deal more slowly than the ones my chainsword had made.

‘She’s weakening,’ I said, as the eldar construct returned to the attack, leaping into the air to drive a slashing blow down through the daemon’s torso. Once again the wound began to heal, but even more sluggishly – as did the ones being inflicted by the whirling sorcerous spears, and the las-bolts from the circling warlocks began to leave short-lived pock marks before the skin smoothed over again.

‘The spirit stones must be getting depleted,’ Amberley said. ‘But she can still draw enough power from them to hold her own.’ She tried to sound casual, but I knew her well enough to realise just how worried she was becoming. ‘The avatar should wear her down eventually, though.’

‘We don’t have long enough for eventually,’ I reminded her. ‘The air’s still venting.’

‘Good point,’ she said decisively, with a glance at her prostrate colleague. ‘You and Jurgen carry Vekkman. Once we’re through the airlocks I’ll order the defence batteries to flatten the whole dome.’

Which sounded like a great plan to me, and I lost no time in saying so. Amberley shook her head.

‘It still might not be enough to banish such a powerful daemon,’ she said, ‘and it’ll probably hack off the eldar so much they’ll take out the entire orbital in a hissy fit.’ She shrugged. ‘But it’s the only option I can see. While she’s linked to the stones–’

Sudden realisation burst in my head, the thought I’d had before coming abruptly into focus.

‘Jurgen can block the link,’ I said. ‘Like he did with Rakel.’ I turned to my aide. ‘We need to get to those stones. Now.’

‘Very good, sir,’ he replied, as phlegmatic as ever, and began running straight towards them, heedless of the battling behemoths in between.

‘Stick with him,’ Amberley said, but I was running after my aide even before she’d finished speaking, decades of experience having shown me that in situations like this the closer I was to Jurgen the safer I was liable to be; although in this case, safety was a pretty relative term. I dodged the sweep of the avatar’s pole arm, feeling the blistering heat of the thing’s metal body shrivel the hairs on the nape of my neck as it charged past, then ducked and rolled as Emeli’s tail[192] nearly took my head off. The swooping eldar weren’t exactly helping either, the occasional las-bolt hitting the ground around us as we ran, although the towering daemon was a pretty hard target to miss. As I hit the ground I found the eldritch weapon Vekkman had been waving about close to my hand, and seized it instinctively, dropping my chainsword in order to do so, swinging it experimentally as I regained my feet. It felt curiously light for its size, but it had been able to affect the towering daemon in some way, which my old familiar weapon most definitely hadn’t. I fumbled for an activation rune, failed to find one, and hoped that whatever it did was somehow innate to it.

‘Get away from there!’ Emeli swatted at Jurgen with a hand the size of a Terminator, and he ducked in the nick of time, having the presence of mind to crack off a shot with the melta as he straightened up. This time the cauterised crater it gouged in her arm remained unhealed, seeping some noisome fluid into the wound.

‘It’s working!’ I shouted, flourishing the fallen inquisitor’s staff as though it were a chainsword. I lashed out at Emeli’s leg, and, to my relief, saw a fragment of it vanish back into the warp, if only for a moment.

‘Good,’ Amberley said, shuffling across to Vekkman and hoisting him onto her shoulder. Jurgen clambered up onto the dais, next to the pile of spirit stones. It reached almost to his waist, and for the first time I realised just how many of the things there were; no wonder the daemon had seemed so powerful, with such a vast hoard of energy to leech off.

‘What do you want me to do now, sir?’ Jurgen asked, quite reasonably under the circumstances.

‘Trying not to die would be good,’ I said, only half flippantly. If his gift from the Emperor was going to save us, and Emeli knew it, killing him would be her only chance of saving herself. Of course that would mean going through me, so chances were I wouldn’t be there to find out one way or the other. I backed up to the dais myself.

Emeli yelped, as the avatar arrested a leap in our direction by seizing her tail. Smoke and steam rose around its fist, the flesh charring and blistering beneath its grip. Emeli whirled round and smashed it hard in what should have been its face, and the construct staggered from the impact.

‘Something’s happening,’ Jurgen said, a note of puzzlement entering his voice. I risked a glance behind us, and felt a sudden surge of optimism. The stones were glowing brighter, the light gnawing away at the invading darkness within them, which began to dwindle in response. Slowly but surely even the most badly infected began to regain their lustre.

‘She’s weakening!’ Amberley cried, surprise and relief mingling in her voice. It was true. The avatar’s arcane weapon was glowing brightly now, carving its way through the daemon’s flesh and bone, while the warp spawn flailed and struck out with ever increasing desperation.

‘Stop! Stop!’ she wailed. Then the towering mass of flesh crashed to the ground. A miasma of nothingness, like its first manifestation, seemed to seep out of it, writhing like the scorching air over a desert as the thing’s essence sought to escape the destruction of her physical body.

But the avatar was faster, swinging its arcane weapon through the space the noncorporeal entity occupied, and a wordless wail of agony and despair echoed through the air around us. A nimbus of light erupted from the pole arm, in which a shadow seemed to move, struggling desperately as it was drawn into the very blade itself. Then the light faded, and the avatar froze into watchful immobility.

‘Is that it?’ Jurgen asked, and I exhaled gratefully, only aware as I did so that I’d been holding my breath, offering silent but nonetheless fervent thanks to the Emperor for our deliverance all the while.

‘Throne knows,’ I said, readying my weapons again. The eldar were still circling overhead, although they’d stopped firing now there was nothing left to shoot at, and their spears had returned to their hands.

‘Apart from the tidying up,’ Amberley said, as the leading jetbike grounded, and Sambhatain dismounted, with a faintly disdainful look in our direction. She raised a hand, and greeted the farseer in his own tongue.

‘Your language, please,’ he said. ‘It’s so much simpler, and you won’t have to explain it all again later.’

‘Do we have time for explanations?’ I asked, with a glance at the hole in the roof that I tried to make seem casual rather than panic-stricken. ‘I’ve tried breathing vacuum before, and it’s not an experience I care to repeat.’

Almost as the words left my mouth, however, the wind died down, the flickering nimbus of a force field sealing the breach above our heads.

Sambhatain smiled, in the kind of superior manner everyone associates with eldar, and generally detests. ‘We’ve time enough,’ he said. Then he turned to Amberley. ‘At least to settle the matters we need to discuss.’

Editorial Note:

Since the substance of those discussions, and their aftermath, appears to have been of insufficient interest to Cain for him to bother to recall, I’m forced to let another, less-reliable, source fill in the gaps.

From The Eldar: a History of Their Presence in the Ultima Segmentum, and Some Musings Upon Possible Means of Their Eradication, by Baltazar Thromp, 997 M41

Thus it was that triumph and tragedy were so fatefully to meet. Having determined that the fate of his world hung in the balance, and that his own life was a small price to pay for the deliverance of the billions who looked to him for protection, Governor Fulcher took it upon himself to rid Ironfound of the eldar scourge once and for all. Quite how he managed to contact their leaders and convince them to meet him face-to-face, we’ll never know; but contact them he undoubtedly did. And when the alien pirates marched brazenly into that most holy of sanctums, the gubernatorial mansion itself, no doubt expecting the ignominious surrender of the resources they sought to seize by force, all they received was death itself.

For, no doubt inspired by the example of the booby-trapped spacecraft among the flotilla in which he arrived, Governor Fulcher had secreted a small but effective fusion warhead in his residence, which he detonated as soon as the invasion’s leaders arrived in his presence.

The effect on the eldar was catastrophic. Decapitated and leaderless, its pirate fleet fled into the void, while their compatriots on the surface of Ironfound fled equally precipitately, by whatever arcane means they’d first arrived. From that day to this, the entire Ironfound System remains free of their depredations, a lasting monument to the sacrifice of the hero of the hour, Governor Septimus Fulcher.

Twenty-nine

I’d been expecting a lot of awkward questions from both inquisitors once the eldar had, for reasons which still escaped me, broken off their assault and left the system. To my relief, however, Vekkman seemed satisfied that my intervention with the null rod was what had broken Emeli’s link to the spirit stones, which rather neatly allowed Amberley to keep the secret of my aide’s peculiar gift to herself.

‘It wasn’t exactly a lie, anyway,’ she told me, over the dinner table in her villa. ‘Jurgen’s gift alone would not have been enough to dispel a daemon that powerful.’ A shudder only someone who knew her as well as I did would notice rippled through her, as she contemplated how close we’d all come to damnation, before her usual insouciant demeanour returned. ‘But the null rod strengthened it, or supplemented it, or something. According to Vekkman it’s supposed to have the same kind of effect as a living blank.’

‘Talking of Vekkman,’ I said, a trifle indistinctly round a mouthful of poached ploin, ‘how is he?’

‘Recovering,’ Amberley said, a touch of something curiously close to admiration in her voice, ‘in the medical bay aboard the Externus Exterminatus. He’s a lot tougher than he looks.’

‘I suppose he must be,’ I conceded, ‘tackling things like Emeli all the time.’

‘Or barking mad,’ Amberley said. ‘But probably in a good way.’ She pushed her dessert plate aside.

‘Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful friendship,’ I said, unable to resist teasing her a little.

Amberley sighed, with a hint of regret. ‘Inquisitors tend not to be friends,’ she said. ‘But I’d certainly ask his advice under similar circumstances.’

‘Even though he thought it was a good idea to detonate a fusion bomb on a crowded habitat?’ I asked.

Amberley shook her head. ‘That was me. He wanted to vaporise the entire orbital, just to be sure the Chaos taint had been completely eradicated. I persuaded him just the estate would be enough. For the time being, anyway.’

I nodded, sipping at my post-prandial amasec. ‘At least it gave you a convenient martyr.’ Something which stuck in my craw, I have to admit. By rights, Fulcher’s name should be execrated for as long as the Imperium endures, which means pretty much forever, not be venerated as a hero. ‘Someone to take the credit for the eldar buggering off.’ I took another mouthful of the smooth, fragrant spirit, finally getting to the question I’d been longing to hear an answer to. Not just me, either; Kasteen and Broklaw had both been vocal in their bafflement, not unmingled with relief – it seemed the war on the surface had begun to tip in the xenos’ favour before their sudden and unexpected withdrawal, even the 597th being forced to give ground in the face of their advance. ‘So why did they? They seemed pretty determined to take the planet.’

‘They were in our debt,’ Amberley said. ‘You saved countless eldar souls from being devoured by a daemon, or possibly Slaanesh itself. Sambhatain wasn’t entirely clear on the distinction.’

‘So they renounced their claim to Ironfound in exchange for the souls we saved?’ I asked, not entirely believing it. It sounded pretty weird, even for xenos.

But Amberley nodded. ‘Pretty much. Besides, they weren’t too happy about the state we’ve left it in. I got the impression that even if they did succeed in taking it, the time and resources they’d need to get the place to their liking would be too great.’

‘Really?’ I thought about that. ‘I’d always got the impression that they think pretty much in the long term.’

‘They do.’ A faintly troubled look ghosted across Amberley’s face. ‘But something’s coming. Sambhatain wasn’t specific, but it had him rattled.’

‘How soon?’ I asked, and Amberley shook her head.

‘He wasn’t specific about that either.’ Then she grinned, in her usual carefree manner. ‘But it’s not going to be tonight.’

‘Good,’ I said, and finished my drink. ‘Did he say why they sent those Vypers to get the assassins off my back?’

Amberley nodded. ‘That made sense, at least. In all the futures he could see where they killed you, the daemon manifested, and they couldn’t fight it off. Even though he couldn’t see how you’d make the difference.’

‘Because I was holding the null rod,’ I said, to show I was able to make at least a simple deduction.

‘Or because you were standing next to Jurgen.’ Amberley shrugged, with the usual distracting effect. ‘Either way, it affected his ability to see precisely what would happen.’

‘So, what next?’ I asked.

Amberley looked thoughtful. ‘I’ll drop Vekkman off on Drechia, to mop up the cult there, then I’m heading out-system. I’ve still got heretech smugglers to chase.’

‘And I’d better get back to my regiment,’ I agreed, with a twinge of regret. Once we parted, there was no telling how long it would be before our paths crossed again. ‘I’m sure there’s a war somewhere we’re needed.’

‘No doubt there is.’ Amberley smiled in a manner I knew well, and I found myself responding in the usual way. ‘But I’m sure it can wait until tomorrow.’

‘I’m sure it can,’ I agreed.

[On which heart-warming moment of accord, this portion of his memoirs comes to a natural end.]

<<<< END >>>>

Notes

[1] – Other than my customary footnotes.

[2] – Though Cain encountered both the so-called dark eldar and their more civilised craftworld and Exodite kin several times in the course of his career, he seems never to have noticed the distinction; although, as in most of these instances they were equally intent on killing him, I suppose he can hardly be blamed for that.

[3] – As I’ve noted before in the course of my editorial duties, Cain had an uncanny affinity for complex tunnel systems, apparently acquired in the course of an early childhood which he claims to have spent in the underhive of an as yet unidentified world.

[4] – Though they appear to be propelled entirely by gravitic manipulation, these vehicles have been referred to as jetbikes for as long as humanity has been aware of the eldar and their wargear and, Cain’s pedanticism notwithstanding, the nomenclature is unlikely to be changed at this late stage.

[5] – A naturally occurring substance much prized on forge worlds for its ability to bond almost immovably to just about anything.

[6] – Like most Imperial Guard officers, Cain had a somewhat jaundiced view of the average planetary defence force, tending to regard them as barely competent at best. There were exceptions, of course – and when he found himself serving alongside local units which exceeded his expectations, he generally gave credit where it was due.

[7] – An Imperial Guard staging system, where most regiments in the Damocles Gulf would periodically return for resupply and reassignment.

[8] – There are apparently no fewer than thirty-eight thousand vessels named Indestructible in service across the Imperium as a whole, several of them assigned to the Damocles Gulf and adjacent sectors, so despite Cain’s obvious and pessimistic conclusion, the name of this particular example doesn’t necessarily imply the existence of three predecessors which failed to live up to it.

[9] – Actually a highly unusual occurrence: a body that size, capable of radiating its own heat and surrounded by moons which, in a few instances, were comparable in size to minor planets, would normally be found much closer to the system’s primary than its fringe of cometary debris. Whether this was due to gravitational perturbation early in the system’s formation flinging it outwards, or some interference with the natural order by means now unimaginable during the Dark Age of Technology is a matter of fierce debate (mixed, I suspect, with a great deal of wishful thinking) among the Adeptus Mechanicus acolytes of the region.

[10] – Not to mention the fact that diverting significant numbers of ships to transport military assets to the fringes of the system would adversely affect their own economic output, lower their tithing revenue, and attract the unwelcome attention of the Administratum at a subsector level. Something few planetary governors would be prepared to contemplate in order to help out a regional rival, even without their own jobs on the line.

[11] – At this point in her career recently promoted to major, though remaining in command of the 597th’s First Company.

[12] – Whether from atmospheric refraction or its own internal processes Sekara seems either unaware or indifferent.

[13] – Kilometre: one of the Valhallan colloquialisms he picked up over the course of his long association with regiments from that world.

[14] – Not to mention several others, but as usual Cain seems less interested in those.

[15] – Presumably because the local defence force lacked the training or morale to respond aggressively to an attack of this nature.

[16] – See my previous comment about his lack of awareness of the distinction between the civilised eldar and their Chaos-tainted kin.

[17] – Although Cain was an exceptional marksman, who I saw hitting targets most people would have considered far out of range or too fast moving on more than one occasion. Typically, when complimented on the feat, he would ascribe it simply to blind luck.

[18] – Or possibly neither, as eldar technosorcery tends not to rely on anything so basic as volatiles to power its engines; nevertheless, their devices do explode as satisfactorily as any other race’s when given sufficient encouragement.

[19] – An odd choice of phrase to anyone but an iceworlder, though the meaning seems clear enough: on a world like Valhalla, ice would indeed often be as unyielding as rockcrete, acquiring the same sort of metaphorical meaning as steel or the like in everyday Gothic.

[20] – Quite literally so, in many cases, this being a favourite ambush tactic of iceworlders, who are the only people hardy – or foolhardy – enough to lie in a snowdrift for an extended period of time.

[21] – A remark which I doubt was actually made in jest.

[22] – An appellation she seems quite fond of when referring disparagingly to most xenos species, although – since the eldar were perfectly clear in their intentions – one which seems quite unmerited here. Perhaps it doesn’t mean what she thinks it means.

[23] – Eldar attacks notwithstanding, the flow of materials to Ironfound had to continue as uninterrupted as possible, which meant that transport shuttles would be arriving and departing in an almost continuous stream. Some disruption and delay was inevitable, of course, given that the cargoes had further to travel, but to the credit of all involved – not least the mine workers who found themselves attempting to do their jobs under rather more trying circumstances than usual – throughput was down by a mere three per cent. Not counting the fairly substantial amount filched by the eldar, of course, which put rather more of a dent in the overall economic picture.

[24] – Being so reliant on aerial assets, the eldar had no doubt made the specialised anti-aircraft vehicles high-priority targets, destroying or disabling almost every one in the defenders’ inventory; had the local militia more of an inclination to take the fight to the enemy, or simply venture out of doors, no doubt they would have been repaired with a great deal more alacrity.

[25] – Unless you were one of the people maimed or killed in the initial attack run, of course.

[26] – A phrase surely only a Valhallan could use with a straight face.

[27] – From which it’s safe to assume she’s describing Wraithlords. Interestingly enough, Cain also refers to these engines of destruction as ‘Dreadnoughts’, despite having encountered them frequently enough over the course of his chequered career to be aware of the distinction. But then he also uses the same name for t’au battlesuits several times in the course of his memoirs.

[28] – Or, more likely, concerned for her own position now that her mismanagement of the situation had been noticed by the Administratum.

[29] – Which, coming from a man who once jumped blind through a necron warp portal, is saying quite a lot.

[30] – Which is hardly surprising. The Valhallan beverage, which Cain had developed a taste for over the course of his long association with regiments from that world, has a flavour best described as ‘acquired,’ although a number of other adjectives also spring to mind.

[31] – After Action Reports: summaries of the incidents compiled by the unit commanders concerned, for later evaluation.

[32] – Something of an oversimplification, but as the ranking Imperial Guard officer in the system, her discretionary powers would be wide – not to mention being backed up by a large number of people with guns, which generally inclines civilians to listen.

[33] – Typically a few lightly armed non warp-capable vessels maintained by the local authorities, in the same way that the planetary defence force takes care of the worlds themselves. In practice, their main function seems to be keeping an invasion force occupied with target practice until the Navy arrives.

[34] – The Commissarial symbol of office.

[35] – Slate of Organisation and Equipment; not actually a physical data-slate, but a concise summary of the various subunits making up the regiment, their relationship to one another, and their assets.

[36] – A curious saying, presumably common in whatever underhive he was native to judging by the context in which he uses it – although, since extensive research by my savant Mott has failed to find any trace of the phrase in everyday usage, the world and hive of his birth remain obscure.

[37] – Presumably a humorously expressed refusal rather than an actual intention, since there were no orks on Drechia at the time, and anyone planning to tackle one would need more than that in the way of protection.

[38] – Presumably so the ore being mined could be moved to the processing plants on the surface by truck.

[39] – A quotation often attributed to Macharius, although it appears in no primary sources, and he hardly seems to have been the type to indulge in horticultural metaphors.

[40] – Pockets of methane gas, which, when mixed with the air surrounding them, become highly explosive. Feared by most miners, with good reason, as even a single spark can wreak untold devastation in such a confined space.

[41] – Presumably a reference to his adventures on Simia Orichalcae, which, since the relevant portion of his memoirs has already been edited and disseminated, need not detain us any further.

[42] – Two of his fellow instructors at the schola progenium on Perlia, where he spent the bulk of his occasionally eventful retirement.

[43] – The Simia Orichalcae incident again.

[44] – Either Cain is rounding down here, or the platoon had already taken a number of casualties in fighting the eldar; the five infantry squads a full-strength platoon in the 597th consisted of would have come to fifty troopers alone, plus five more for Grifen and her command squad, while Cain and Jurgen would have raised the total to fifty-seven.

[45] – Like many regiments with extensive experience of fighting in urban environments or close terrain, the 597th habitually split its squads into two teams, the second under the command of the assistant squad leader while detached from the other, when it made tactical sense to do so.

[46] – Casual term for vox-operator, a specialist attached to Imperial Guard command squads, generally responsible for carrying and using the long-range communications equipment which keeps the troops on the ground in touch with the higher echelons of the command chain.

[47] – The dead being content to wait for the rest of the platoon’s return to the surface, presumably.

[48] – The 597th issued comm-beads to every trooper, which probably contributed in no small way to their outstanding effectiveness. Most regiments reserve them for unit commanders, or don’t use them at all, relying instead on the bulkier backpack sets issued to the vox-operators at squad, or even platoon, level, making effective coordination far more difficult.

[49] – It’s questionable whether or not orks actually do suffer from hangovers, since they’re so ill-tempered by nature it would be hard to tell the difference.

[50] – A gesture common in the Damocles Gulf and adjacent sectors, where the thumb is folded into the palm of the hand to form a stylised aquila wing in the hope of invoking the Emperor’s protection or favour.

[51] – The Valhallan ice weasel, which has spread to many other worlds with a similar climate over the millennia, does indeed emit a peculiar wailing sound when looking for a mate.

[52] – Exaggeration for humorous effect. I’m fully aware that neither of us were entirely able to set our own schedules as a consequence of our respective vocations, and that our social interaction was inevitably disrupted from time to time as a result. That said, he really could have made more of an effort.

[53] – Not entirely true, according to some of the less deranged among my colleagues from the Ordo Malleus, but his earlier encounters with the sorceress-turned-daemon might indeed have left him unusually sensitive to such emanations.

[54] – Which would of course have access to most, if not all, the channels open to Cain by virtue of his Commissarial status – a fact which probably went some way to explaining how Jurgen was able to anticipate events quite so presciently on occasion, even those for which a trooper of his rank would have no security clearance.

[55] – Presumably the Lord of Pleasure itself.

[56] – Which may indicate that he was still close enough to Jurgen to derive a measure of protection from his abilities: such images are often imbued with sufficient warpcraft to ensnare the unwary, who stare at them enthralled until cut down by heretic guards or, worse still, their souls are irrevocably stained by the taint of corruption.

[57] – Perhaps, given what they’d been engaged in prior to his arrival, it’s just as well he doesn’t go into any further details at this point.

[58] – Another indication that Cain was within Jurgen’s warp-dampening aura at the time, as one characteristic of this kind of daemon is the ability to appear preternaturally attractive to its victims.

[59] – Not quite the nine hundred years previously mentioned by Proktor, but close enough.

[60] – Which is hardly surprising, given that the psychic shock of meeting him for the first time knocked her unconscious, a circumstance which first revealed his rare and valuable gift.

[61] – Which is why I always approached such situations as though I didn’t have it – the one time I trust to it being guaranteed to be the occasion on which it doesn’t work.

[62] – Not that surprising, given that they’d been Inquisition agents for years by this point, although it’s true most members of their respective callings would have been completely out of their depths in a combat situation.

[63] – Like a lot of psykers, Rakel’s grasp of reality was tenuous at best, meaning that she tended to express herself indirectly, or by metaphor. I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t frequently frustrating, not to mention irritating, but the occasions when her insights proved significant more than made up for the inconvenience.

[64] – A reference to a fortune-telling tradition which holds that clues to the future can be discerned in the pattern of residue left in the bottom of a tea bowl, although the only thing which can reliably be predicted by the practitioners of the art appears to be their imminent acquisition of cash from the gullible.

[65] – Cramp in the wrist, actually, though they seem not to have minded.

[66] – Again, it’s not quite as simple as that.

[67] – Like most Imperial worlds, Drechia had a small delegation from the Adeptus Arbites overseeing their local law enforcers – in this case a single arbitrator with a small clerical staff, entrusted with keeping an eye on all the inhabited moons of the Avernus subsystem, and none too pleased, as I recall, at the sudden and massive increase in their workload.

[68] – Not openly, at any rate.

[69] – Quite literally, as his or her legs had been replaced by a gravitic repulsor unit, leaving the enginseer’s torso floating about a metre from the floor.

[70] – Though serving with, and occasionally alongside, Imperial Guard units, the enginseers assigned to them remain first and foremost members of the Priesthood of Mars, and thus outside the chain of command. Not unlike commissars, come to think of it, but with more metal bashing and meditation on the Omnissiah, and less shooting people who step out of line.

[71] – A slightly disparaging nickname for tech-priests common among the lower ranks of the Astra Militarum (and the higher ones too, actually), referring to the cogwheel sigil of their calling.

[72] – Up to a point.

[73] – Another indication that Cain has skipped over a fair amount of intervening time without bothering to mention it, since the scouting parties the regiment despatched earlier had presumably returned by this point.

[74] – I most certainly did not.

[75] – A pointed remark about pots and kettles springs to mind here.

[76] – A Valhallan creature proverbially so slow and clumsy even the most inept of hunters can’t possibly miss.

[77] – One of the many turns of phrase which lead me to suspect that she had something of a crush on Cain, despite the personal antipathy he felt towards her – something of which she apparently remained blissfully unaware throughout his period of service with the 597th.

[78] – The third paragraph in succession commencing with this phrase: for Throne’s sake, did she ever bother to read back what she’d written?

[79] – And the consummate intimidatory skills of Amberley Vail, although there was no reason for Sulla to know that, of course.

[80] – And an inquisitor threatening to turn her over to the interrogators as a potential enabler of a Chaos cult – always a handy piece of leverage to have.

[81] – Actually Proktor’s, in her name, and Pelton’s, in mine.

[82] – He made some kind of speech at the official handover, which I was too busy to listen to, and which seemed to have worked; he was always good at that sort of thing.

[83] – XX101DD.

[84] – Actually, it’s pretty hard to take a farseer by surprise, but I didn’t see any reason to mention that; he’d only have fretted.

[85] – I assume he means politically and economically, since diving headlong into the heart of a star seldom ends well for anyone.

[86] – An issue on which opinion actually continues to be divided. Though many armchair analysts concur with Thromp’s assessment – that concentrating on the escorts and transport vessels weakened the fleet as a whole and blunted the thrust of their invasion plans – others are equally adamant that concentrating on the larger vessels would have removed, or at least mitigated, a more powerful threat to the system as a whole. The only ones who truly know, of course, are the eldar farseers, and they aren’t telling.

[87] – The heaviest class of system defence vessel, not to be confused with the Adeptus Astartes war engines of the same name.

[88] – Probably because they found it a refreshing novelty.

[89] – Good guess. According to the records, Fulcher was a little over 112 standard years old at the time of this conversation.

[90] – Not that likely, but it would melt sufficient bedrock for the effect to be pretty much the same to a probably short-lived observer.

[91] – A form of entertainment popular among the artisan classes of many worlds in the Damocles Gulf and adjacent sectors, generally performed at festivals by earnest amateurs. For many these are as much an act of devotion as entertainment, since the subject matter is invariably some incident from the life of the Emperor or one of the saints, presented comedically, with a great deal of slapstick, and an abundance of fart jokes.

[92] – I think not.

[93] – Most definitely not; although if I had done, subsequent events would no doubt have occurred a great deal more quickly.

[94] – Even the governor’s wealth not being entirely limitless. The last native tree on Ironfound would have died out centuries, if not millennia, before, meaning that all timber on the planet was either incredibly ancient, or imported.

[95] – Ironically, it was Sulla, though if he ever discovered this he doesn’t bother to mention it.

[96] – How very uncharacteristic.

[97] – Which is, of course, what would normally have grounded there.

[98] – Who, in the nature of things, would almost certainly be in receipt of an emolument from a rival noble house or an affronted spouse to keep an ear out for just that kind of thing.

[99] – It’s unclear here whether he means another jolt, or a pejorative description of the driver.

[100] – All of which implies that he somehow found time to stow his weapons, unless he simply dropped them and trusted to luck to keep them within the vehicle.

[101] – Correct on both counts.

[102] – Due, according to Mott, to ‘thermal layers,’ whatever they are.

[103] – So about half the diameter of the level he’d started out at, which would have been roughly a quarter of the way up from ground level; although like most hives this one extended so far beneath the surface the concept of ‘ground level’ would have been meaningless to all but a handful of its inhabitants.

[104] – Clearly the whole tree/swamp analogy is still fresh in his mind here.

[105] – The colours of the gubernatorial crest.

[106] – Directly behind him, using the analogy of a clock face to indicate direction being standard military practice.

[107] – Typically, it doesn’t seem to have occurred to him that his success in evading them thus far, not to mention his reputation, had made his opponents wary of taking their victory for granted.

[108] – A death world not unlike Catachan in its overabundance of lethal vegetation, and which, unusually, an ork invasion had only managed to improve.

[109] – He is, of course, joking here. Or, at least, one certainly hopes he is.

[110] – Cain is probably exaggerating here, since a typical Imperial Guard platoon consists of between fifty and sixty people; although, given the size of the average gubernatorial household, such a number isn’t entirely inconceivable.

[111] – Commander in Chief.

[112] – The Administratum adepts of the Munitorum being just as efficient as their counterparts in other branches of Imperial service, it was hardly surprising that adherence to protocol and precedent generally weighed far more heavily than due consideration of what assets were actually needed to counter a particular threat; indeed, to them, one Guard unit seems to have been essentially interchangeable with another, regardless of whatever expertise or experience it might actually possess. Which accounts for the relatively few occasions the Valhallans Cain was attached to – cold weather warriors par excellence – were deployed on ice-worlds, rather than to the wide variety of environments he mentions in the course of his memoirs.

[113] – Just the usual things a girl needs when she’s out and about: ammo clips, hanky, displacer field, a few grenades and a packet of dried ploin in case she gets peckish.

[114] – Although it could be argued that doing whatever an inquisitor asks you to do is very much in your own best interests, given the probable alternative.

[115] – Definitely exaggeration for humorous effect, since he would have been perfectly aware that even the tertiary reserve units of a civilised world’s defence force would be issued with lasguns. How effectively they might be able to use them is, of course, an entirely different question.

[116] – The local name for law enforcers.

[117] – The Adeptus Arbites being concerned with the administration of Imperial statute, rather than planetary or system-wide laws, which vary widely across the galaxy. They do, however, have an oversight role, primarily to ensure that no local ordinance contravenes any ruling by the High Lords of Terra – which, as these are often outdated and mutually contradictory, keeps most arbitrators gainfully and happily employed for the duration of their careers. 

[118] – Definitely wisely.

[119] – That would be most of them.

[120] – Which they probably thought we were, not being privy to the big picture.

[121] – Nothing like as much, though still a formidable barrier.

[122] – And why would it? They were both aware of my presence, and were familiar enough with my methods to know I’d start to work openly as soon as the situation demanded it.

[123] – Or it may not. The Imperium is, after all, quite staggeringly big, the time taken for news, rumour and conjecture to cross it being typically measured in years, if not decades.

[124] – Possibly just as well, given the relatively confined space.

[125] – As, subsequently, on several of those occasions, had the rapid acceleration conferred by his augmetic legs.

[126] – Probably not: if ever a man deserved the appellation of ‘ceramite stomach’ it was him.

[127] – The local defence force generally relying on utility trucks for transport within the hive, reserving their armoured vehicles for operations on the surface.

[128] – Routine matters only, of course, as Cain would have been contacted in person if anything occurred which Kasteen thought required his attention.

[129] – Small apertures in the hull, through which the embarked troops could fire their lasguns if required, to supplement the vehicle’s heavy armament.

[130] – Which had, probably inevitably, resulted in them being nicknamed ‘Beetles’ by the local inhabitants.

[131] – Technically, as commissars are outside the chain of command it’s not strictly necessary for even Imperial Guard troopers to salute them, let alone members of the planetary defence force, but a substantial proportion do so anyway, possibly to be on the safe side. In Cain’s case, however, this seems to have been prompted by genuine regard, however much the fact seems to have escaped him.

[132] – Fragments of debris blasted loose from the inside of an armoured vehicle’s hull by a sufficiently strong external impact, effectively creating a blizzard of shrapnel in a confined space – something rightly feared by tank crews the galaxy over.

[133] – A neat trick peculiar to that type of vehicle, achieved by moving the two tracks in opposite directions at the same speed.

[134] – Two of them; Mott, who would be the least effective with his weapon if we found ourselves in combat – so the extra time it would take him to draw and use it would be less critical – carried one of the luminators, while Jurgen – who, as usual in this sort of situation, had clipped his to the bayonet lugs of his lasgun – took the other.

[135] – The planetary defence force didn’t issue troopers with personal vox-beads. Instead, a specialist vox-operator, trained in the correct procedures and incantations, would carry a backpack unit to enable the officer in charge to keep in touch with their headquarters and other units in the vicinity. These were typically a good deal more powerful, and Cain mentions several instances in the course of his memoirs when the 597th used similar pieces of kit to extend the range of their vox-beads in the interest of operational efficiency.

[136] – Apart from Jurgen, of course, who was already carrying his ready for use.

[137] – The living organisms shot by tyranid weapons are, for the most part, mercifully short-lived, having been selectively bred (or, perhaps more accurately, constructed) for lifespans measured only in seconds. Probably because that makes them easier to reabsorb into the swarm’s biomass reserves after expenditure, or because leaving them motile and liable to attack anything living in the vicinity would make them as much of a problem to the ’nids as to their enemies.

[138] – A common misapprehension among those who have encountered them, generally at the business end of a firearm, but a reasonable one.

[139] – A rather disquieting aside, given his early life in a place like this.

[140] – Which face-eaters infest on a number of Imperial worlds, though by no means all. From his next remark we can infer that Cain’s original home – wherever that was – had remained free of them, for instance.

[141] – Something Mott explained later, as, at the time, no one was particularly interested in how they knew we were there.

[142] – No mean feat of marksmanship, under the circumstances – which, as usual, he doesn’t seem to regard as in any way remarkable.

[143] – In fact she still had plenty of energy left, but the focusing array in the barrel had been damaged by the face-eater’s digestive juices.

[144] – Not to mention Zemelda’s.

[145] – Or paranoia.

[146] – On the contrary, flexibility of thinking is a vital asset in an inquisitor. Something rather too many of my colleagues fail to take into account.

[147] – Apart from a few further firefights with wandering eldar, and underhivers discovering too late that attempting to murder us for our trappings was a really bad idea.

[148] – One of them, ironically, being Jenit Sulla, especially in the later part of her career, although this seems to have passed Cain by entirely.

[149] – Tech-priests in Inquisitorial service tend to be atypical in many respects.

[150] – Like many of his calling, his augmented vision wasn’t limited to the visible spectrum.

[151] – Relatively insignificant only in a relative sense; worlds have fallen, or come close to it, wherever the clandestine trade in t’au artefacts across the borders of the two powers has been left unsuppressed. The alarming degree of t’au influence Cain noted among a large proportion of the population on Gravalax, for instance, presumably began in much the same way.

[152] – Not necessarily, but the Officio Assassinorum tends to be a bit sniffy about requests to despatch one of their agents to the heart of a hostile empire unless you can show a pressing reason for it, and have all the forms in triplicate.

[153] – Usually in a muttered undertone, with a nervous glance over the shoulder.

[154] – An orbital landing craft, capable of carrying a full company of Imperial Guard troopers, which should give you some idea of the scale of our surroundings; though Cain gives little indication of it, the hangar was roughly the size of a modest cathedral.

[155] – An unusual choice of phrase, by which I assume he means five or so; normally he’d refer to that number of troopers operating independently as a detachment or a fire team, but probably didn’t consider them sufficiently organised to merit either appellation – particularly in the light of his next remark.

[156] – Around a billion people all told, not counting transients like starship crews and their passengers, distributed across almost a hundred orbital facilities. Not evenly, of course, the most populous being home to some twenty million, and the smallest only a few hundred thousand.

[157] – Or, more accurately, a version of it calculated to place him in the most flattering light possible.

[158] – Fortunately not as often as all that, although his skills were quite literally life-saving on more than one occasion. Our lives, anyway, not so much anyone else’s, particularly if they happened to fly across his gun-sights.

[159] – To be fair, most people wouldn’t have a seizure if they stood too close to him.

[160] – Like weapons, although he would have had no way of knowing that.

[161] – Airlocks large enough to accommodate heavy cargo vessels like the one commandeered by Defroy and his people being more trouble than they’re worth when traffic volumes rise past a certain point.

[162] – Or, to be more accurate, the cargo hauler it was all but clinging to.

[163] – Given the relative ease with which communications can be monitored, and the fact that most codes can be broken with sufficient effort, there is still a place in the military for the dissemination of sensitive information by courier where time permits.

[164] – Unless you count the vast number of shuttle movements undertaken by Traffic Control on a normal working day before the eldar invasion, of course, although Thromp, like most of the minor nobility, seems a little hazy about the realities of everyday life.

[165] – Not to mention the considerable amount of money they’d been offered.

[166] – No probably about it. Conspiracies unravel by identifying one member of them and seeing who else they talk to.

[167] – Possibly an exaggeration, but not by much.

[168] – Probably Eagle or Darkstar classes, although nothing large enough to identify survived the ensuing explosion.

[169] – Or, to be more accurate, the largest and most heavily armed one, since the vessel commanding the enemy fleet was never positively identified.

[170] – Possibly because it’s not that easy to take a farseer by surprise.

[171] – Or not: see my previous footnote.

[172] – An effect he often had on ladies of a certain age, and – despite the studied disingenuousness – of which he was well aware. And one he wasn’t above taking advantage of if he wanted a favour, either.

[173] – Or pitched him into it.

[174] – Preferably by persuading them to ‘retire’ or ‘spend more time in academic pursuits,’ but other, more permanent options are available for the ones who fail to see reason.

[175] – An improvised sign of allegiance often adopted by Slaaneshi cultists in open rebellion against the Imperial authorities.

[176] – And failing.

[177] – More like definitely.

[178] – Presumably a misinterpretation of the recovery of the casualties’ spirit stones.

[179] – In the short term, anyway.

[180] – Not exactly. More like set aside for the time being.

[181] – I’ve always wondered what these are supposed to be the rest of the time.

[182] – An Imperial Guard euphemism for mercy killing.

[183] – Clambering over it and swearing, more like, if I know him.

[184] – Less of a risk than it sounds; anyone serving in the governor’s personal guard would have been recruited from the cream of the planetary defence force, and be among the most experienced and disciplined soldiers in the Ironfound System.

[185] – Hellguns, like the standard Imperial Guard lasguns they’re patterned after, generally have three firing modes: single shot, a burst of five rounds for each squeeze of the trigger, and fully automatic, where the gun continues to fire for as long as the trigger is depressed or until the power pack is depleted. If, as Cain states here, the selector switch was set to the second option, Evander would have taken five rounds at point-blank range, with entirely predictable results.

[186] – In fact the guest list for these affairs was pretty much rooted in protocol, the same dignitaries and lesser noble families having formed the backbone of it for centuries. Rounding them all up would simply have involved sending out vox messages, and waiting for the stampede to the free food and drink (which, paradoxically, seem to become more attractive the wealthier and further up the social hierarchy people become) to begin.

[187] – No one is ever entirely removed from it, but he was a lot further from the top by this point.

[188] – We all had.

[189] – Or heavy cruiser – like most people unconnected with the Imperial Navy, he was unclear about the distinction between various classes of warship, and cared even less.

[190] – Surprisingly close, for an offhand remark.

[191] – Roughly waist-high to the daemon.

[192] – Though generally vague in his description of the daemon’s physical appearance, probably because it wasn’t something he particularly wanted to recall, Cain is quite correct in this specific detail. It appeared to be prehensile, and was used mainly in fruitless attempts to trip or entangle its opponent.

About the Author

Sandy Mitchell is the author of a long-running series of Warhammer 40,000 novels about the Hero of the Imperium, Commissar Ciaphas Cain, as well as the audio drama Dead In The Water. He has also written a plethora of short stories, including ‘The Last Man’ in the Sabbat Worlds anthology, along with several novels set in the Warhammer World. He lives and works in Cambridge.

An extract from The Horusian Wars: Incarnation.

The harvest pilgrims came to the glass tabernacle as they always had. They trod the half-severed stalks down, and sent their prayer smoke into the blue sky, a slowly gathering tide of people old and young, man and woman, all clad in the sacred blue of rain. Thousands of them had already gathered around the tabernacle. They swirled about it, white smoke puffing from their fume pipes, scenting the air with fruit and spice.

‘Credulous fools,’ muttered Ninkurra, as she guided one of her hawks lower over the scene. The creatures were psyber-bonded – their eyes and will hers.

The pilgrim throng was swaying like the crops that had stood where they now walked. Whooping prayers lifted into the air. Inside the tent of glass, the priests were gathering around the altar box. She could see them sway as they sang their secret songs and swung incense smoke around the reliquary. From their point of view, her seeing this would be a blasphemy; she was not of the priesthood, and not initiated into the mysteries of the Emperor’s Eternal Light. The pilgrims who circled the tabernacle would have torn her apart if they had known that she could see a priest open the first leaf of the reliquary. They would have been even more incensed that she could see an acolyte at the back of the group pick his nose. A kilometre away from them, she snorted with laughter.

‘Something diverting?’ asked Memnon.

‘No,’ she said, still watching the priests, ‘not really, just… Don’t you sometimes think humanity is too petty for divinity? If we found the Emperor’s frozen tears someone would give them to a child as a toy.’

‘That is what defines the divine – that it is beyond us.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do.’

Seen from above, the tabernacle itself was a mountain made of triangular sheets of glass, each one tethered to another, the smallest on the outside just a couple of metres tall, the largest over fifty metres in height. Its apex was a blade point thrust at the sun. Even though each sheet of glass was transparent, those stood on the outside could see only a handful of layers inside. Rainbows of blinding light scattered from its faces and edges, hiding the sanctuary at its core. Once the ceremony began, only a few of the pilgrims would be allowed inside. There was no straight way to the centre of the structure, just an ever-weaving path between sheets of reflection. If a pilgrim reached the sanctuary itself, they would be able to turn, and – thanks to the precise setting of each glass pane – see perfectly in every direction.

She opened her true eyes and for a moment felt vertigo as the sight from her hawks clashed with the world in front of her. Then the two split and the hawk’s eye view receded to the back of her mind.

‘I see no indications of the prospect,’ she said.

Memnon reached beneath his robes and withdrew a small box of bone. Ash tattoos marched down his cheeks in rows of tiny dots, each one faded to grey. His patchwork robes fluttered in the warm breeze. He alone was not dressed in pilgrim blue, but in the faded and torn cloth that he always wore. Ninkurra had often thought that he looked more like a beggar or an ascetic monk than an inquisitor. He looked young, at least young in the way that people judged such things, maybe no more than three decades to the eye. Ninkurra saw his lips move in silent prayer before he opened the lid of the box. He took a pinch of dust from within, and cast it into the air. The grey powder caught the breeze. Memnon watched it, face impassive, until it had dissolved into the wind. Ninkurra had no idea what he looked for, but she knew that he saw more than dust vanishing on the wind.

‘It is coming,’ he said at last. ‘Order the gunships to come in.’

Ninkurra obeyed, transmitting the command with a thought.

‘I am reading low-grade atmospheric interference across multiple spectra.’ Geddon’s voice was a scratched patchwork of static and voice samples. The auspextra was sweating profusely under the sun’s glare. Sweat stuck her blue pilgrim’s robe to her hunched body. Bulbous curves of metal gleamed in the gaps between the lank cloth. The heat sinks of her signal and scanning arrays must have been cooking her, reflected Ninkurra. ‘Static and moisture levels are rising. Pressure inversion unfolding at one hundred metres above ground level.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Ninkurra, glancing back.

‘There is a storm coming,’ said Geddon.

Ninkurra snorted. ‘It’s clear blue to beyond the horizon,’ she said.

‘No,’ said Memnon softly, and raised a hand to point up. ‘Look.’

Ninkurra followed the line of his long finger. She squinted against the light, raising a hand to shield her eyes. Then she saw it – a smudge of white in the clear air. A gust of air tugged at her robe, and she was aware of the same wind pulling at her hawks as they turned above the tabernacle.

‘You may wish to bring your birds back,’ said Geddon. ‘All readings are spiking.’

Above the tabernacle the patch of cloud was growing, expanding up and out, darkening. She could hear the voices of pilgrims rising in puzzlement. Through the eyes of her hawks, she saw the black dots of the gunships rise from above the horizon. Even the voices of the priests in the tabernacle were faltering. The outer layers of glass shook in the rising wind.

‘Readings across all parameters are reaching paradox,’ rasped Geddon. The hawks spiralled down out of the darkening sky. Ninkurra could feel it now – metal on her tongue, static shivering on the inside of her skin. The mass of pilgrims were looking up at the thunderhead darkening the air above them. Some were crying out, some were already running.

‘We have targets locked and weapons live,’ said a voice in Ninkurra’s vox-bead.

The gunships were visible now. The sound of engines growled across the distance.

‘Do you have a triangulation?’ asked Memnon, calmly.

‘No, lord,’ shouted Geddon, her fingers clacking the keys of the controls that took the place of her left arm. ‘Phenomenon and paradox traces are changing too rapidly. The prospect is not clear.’

‘Very well,’ said Memnon. ‘Gunships into gyre pattern. Nothing that runs lives.’ He began to walk down the gentle slope towards the tabernacle and the crowd of pilgrims. ‘We will need to identify the prospect directly. There is not much time.’

The hawks on Ninkurra’s shoulders took to the air with shrill cries as she followed him.

Lightning flashed inside the cloud above them. Thunder rolled.

‘Come,’ said Memnon. ‘We must be pilgrims now.’

The Black Priest walked in silence through the Dionysia. Midnight robes billowed in his wake. Vials of holy water and silver aquilae hung from his waist, and a heavy ‘I’ set with a rayed skull hung around his neck. Two void-armoured troopers in pressure helms followed him, their shot-cannons held low but ready. If the priest was disturbed by their presence he did not show it. No muscle twitched under the pattern of tattoos which covered his face, and his hands hung loose beside the pommel of his sword and the butt of his pistol. The guards had let him keep both. It was a sign of trust, but Viola could not help thinking that it, like the threat of the troopers, held little sway on the priest’s mind.

‘They make them from priests who have seen the truth of the warp,’ Josef had said when she had talked of the meeting.

‘Make them?’ she had asked, arching an eyebrow above her chrome-clouded left eye.

‘Don’t get me wrong, they are taught and trained, too – litanies of castigation, rites of exorcism, myth and knowledge that would earn a death penalty across the Imperium – they learn it all. A Black Priest is never a fool and often as clever as they come.’ Josef had smiled. ‘Some of them might be even cleverer than you.’

She had shrugged away the jibe.

‘That’s just education, unusual but not–’

‘Once they get past that they are tested. Every lie and heresy a daemon can utter is thrown at them. They pass through hunger and thirst, pain and torment, and all the while they hear lies, and truths that are worse than lies. Those who get that far are marked with verses of the books of detestation. The tops of their heads are opened and the inside of their skulls etched with sigils of protection. Only then are they sent out to those of the Inquisition that want them.’ Josef had paused and shivered. ‘So, yes, they are made, just like you would make a sword, and you have to treat them as if that’s what they are – things with sharp edges made to do harm.’

The Black Priest stopped a pace from Viola. The door at her back remained closed. She met his gaze. His eyes were pale grey, she noticed.

‘I am Viola von Castellan. I bid you welcome to the Dionysia.’

‘I know who you are,’ said the Black Priest.

‘And I you, but there is a politeness to observing the form of things, don’t you think?’

He moved his head to look at the door behind her and then back.

‘Hesh,’ he said. ‘That is my name.’

Viola fought to keep the frown from her face.

‘My master will see you.’

She blinked her left eye and the door opened. Hesh waited for a second and then stepped through. Viola followed, sealing the door with another blink.

The space beyond was small, barely five paces across, but its stone walls extended up and up until they met a crystal dome that let in the light of the stars outside the ship. Candles burned on iron brackets. Covenant stood opposite the door, clad in the plain grey robe of an adept. Josef waited behind him, the head of his hammer on the floor between his feet, his hands resting on the top of the haft.

‘You are Covenant?’ asked Hesh.

‘Yes.’

Hesh bowed his head.

‘You brought me here because you wish to know something. I submitted because I would know how my lord died.’

‘The circumstances of Lord Vult’s death were presented by my lord inquisitor to a conclave of his peers,’ said Viola, moving to stand behind Covenant.

‘Falsehoods,’ said Hesh.

‘You call my lord a liar?’ asked Viola.

‘All inquisitors are liars,’ said Hesh.

‘For the truth will destroy us all,’ said Covenant. Hesh looked at Covenant. Their gazes locked.

‘True,’ said Hesh.

‘You will address him as lord,’ growled Josef. Covenant gave a small turn of his head and Josef went still and silent.

‘You served Vult for five decades,’ said Covenant, ‘you held his proxy during the purges of Lamish, and turned down the calling to be invested as an inquisitor in your own right, did you not?’

Hesh nodded once. Covenant returned the gesture.

‘He is gone, but I have need of you,’ said Covenant.

‘I was my master’s servant, not yours.’

Covenant’s gaze did not shift, but Viola saw the twitch next to his temple.

‘You are anything I decide you are,’ said Covenant softly.

Hesh’s face was a mask, his pale eyes moving across Covenant’s young features. Then he nodded.

‘How may I serve?’

Covenant looked at him for a long moment.

‘What do you know of Horusians?’ he asked at last.

They were on the edge of the crowd of pilgrims when the lightning struck. Ninkurra felt it before she saw it. White light drowned her mind for an instant. She stumbled and fell. The hawks clinging to her shoulders shrieked. Above her a finger of light uncoiled from the black sky and struck down. Light and shadow reversed. White to black. Black to white. Blue to blood red.

‘Throne’s tears,’ grunted Ninkurra, and pushed herself up from the ground. Lights bubbled in her eyes. The psy-connection to her hawks had vanished. Voices washed through her skull. She could feel the telepathic bow wave break against the psy-engrams trained into her psyche. The crowd of pilgrims lay strewn on the flattened corn stalks, a sea of blue fabric. Memnon had not fallen but even he had stumbled to one knee. In front of them the lightning bolt shone, frozen, a blinding column connecting earth and sky. At its heart a lone figure stood, pinned in place by light.

It had not been one of the priests. It had not even been one of the pilgrims deemed worthy enough to reach the inner sections of the tabernacle. It was just a man, old enough to know that life is neither as cruel nor kind as it seems to the young, young enough to make the pilgrimage on foot from whatever farm compound he lived in. Perhaps he had been having dreams: dreams of great cities of rotting stone and lights that never faded; visions of great battles in times that were already the dust of history. Perhaps he had seen nothing in his sleep but had felt the fire behind his eyes, and wondered at the taste of ashes in his mouth when he woke. Perhaps there had been no signs, and the moment the lightning fell came without any warning. Who he was and how he had come there would never be known, and did not matter, because in that instant the secret power of the universe had reached down and touched him.

Saints, rogue psykers, holy instruments or witches – the difference was not one that Ninkurra had ever tried to understand. Memnon had always said that the difference was only clear after it no longer mattered. She could see why. In moments like the one unfolding in front of her eyes it did not matter whether the power earthing itself in reality was divine or profane. It was just dangerous.

‘Gunships, in now!’ she shouted. ‘Full kill pattern.’

The figure at the core of the lightning twitched, and the field of pilgrims rose as though pulled by strings. Memnon had stood too, but he was no longer her concern. She was not here to protect him. She was here to kill by his will.

The gunships were coming in fast, engines roaring. Ninkurra shrugged the shard-blade from her back as she ran. A man in pilgrim blue blocked her, staggering, blood running from stigmata on his throat. He reached for her. The shard-blade unfolded from its haft as she swung. The pilgrim fell, and there was blood in the air and blood scattering in her wake. She felt her connection to her two hawks return. Their sight filled her mind. She drew her pistol. It armed at her touch.

‘Please…’ The voice came from the mouths of every pilgrim, a deafening whimper of pain. ‘Please… I can’t…’

A gunship banked overhead, engines screaming. Its black hull blocked out the light.

The column of lightning flared. The glass tabernacle exploded. Shards flew out. Bodies fell, torn apart, limbs and flesh split open. Ninkurra dived to the ground. A razor-edged sheet of glass skimmed her left shoulder. Numbness spread down her left side as the nerve shunts in her spine blocked the pain signal. She rolled back to her feet and jinked aside from another fragment.

The explosion froze. Pieces of glass, drops of blood and scraps of skin halted in mid-air, and then began to float upwards as the cries became a deafening pulse of terror.

‘Oh no…’ hissed Ninkurra.

The gunship above her opened up. Hard rounds whipped through the crowd.

The crop stubble was burning. Black smoke smudged the air.

A high, keening cry came from the mouths of the pilgrims.

‘So far…’ moaned the chorus of pain. ‘Can see… so far…’

She ran forwards. A man swung across her path. He was missing half his head; skull and brain sliced clean away, but he was still moving, mouth still shouting.

‘I don’t want…’

She kicked him aside. The gunship curved around in the air above her. Figures in crimson and black armour were dropping from its open hatches. More fire cut into the crowd as the door gunner of the second craft fired. Hot brass casings rattled as they hit the lip of the open door.

A wall of bodies in front of her. She raised her pistol and fired three times. The executioner rounds barely had time to sniff their kill markers before they hit. Wet explosions tore a hole in the pilgrims, and then Ninkurra was through it. She was seeing with three sets of eyes: her own and those of the hawks spinning through the air above. She could see the prospect. He was standing in a circle of burning crop stubble. His hands were spread, palms open, head tilted back. Furnace light poured from his mouth and eyes. A golden nimbus pulsed about his shoulders.

Ninkurra raised her pistol and fired. The round punched into the air and shrank, tumbling in slow motion as it became molten slag. A pilgrim grabbed at her. She took the grasping hands off at the wrist with a flick of the shard-blade, and tried to push forward. It was like trying to run into a gale.

The sounds of gunfire and gunships faded…

The feeling of her muscles dimmed…

She was not moving…

A trio of hard rounds whipped through the crowd behind her. She could see them move through the air, buzzing like heavy insects.

+Daughter…+ said a voice in her skull that spoke and shook like the sound of thunder. +Daughter of man… why is this happening?+

She tried to shut it out, tried to bury her thoughts behind the engrams imbedded in her psyche. But the pressure forcing its way inside her mind was immense, like a tidal wave pouring over a sea wall. She could feel it growing, too, raw power flowing out into being, unstoppable, wild, and filled with pain. There was just a scrap of her own will left, and she held on to it as the firetide of thoughts broke through her. She had faced moments close to this, but they had killed the prospect before its power fully manifested. She was about to see what would have happened if they had failed all those times before.

+I can see so far…+ roared the thunder voice in her skull, +but… I…don’t want to… I don’t understand what…+

Now, she willed.

The psyber-hawks dived from the sky above. Their feathers burned as they fell. Her last instruction held them true, wings tucked, ash spilling from them. They struck the man as they died, claws cutting into flesh for an instant before they became flashes of light.

It was only an instant, a stutter in unfolding time. But it was enough. Ninkurra raised her gun and fired once. The world shrieked, and then there was just the noise of burning corn and the chatter of distant gunfire.

‘The Horusians were the worst of what are called radicals,’ said Hesh. ‘Inquisitors who take the authority of the divine Emperor, and use it to follow their calling down paths that others would consider perversions of the ideals of the Imperium. Heretics, and betrayers of their office.’

‘But they are not called either heretics or betrayers,’ said Viola calmly, ‘they are called radicals.’

‘A kindness of language,’ growled Hesh.

‘A truth,’ said Viola. ‘They are inquisitors. None save the Emperor may gainsay them. If they believe something is right, who is to say that they are wrong? The Emperor cannot commit heresy or betray Himself, so how can those that walk in His name?’

Hesh turned his pale eyes on her. Thin lips peeled back over yellow teeth.

‘To defend heresy is to become worse than those you defend.’

‘Enough,’ said Covenant, and Viola felt the cold authority in the word. He took a step closer to Hesh. The Black Priest did not move. ‘Your master lived his ideals, and died fighting for mankind’s survival. I am giving you the chance to serve mankind, because of him, because he trusted and valued you. But do not think that in this place you are anything but a servant of the Emperor, and your service is your knowledge, your reward is to obey, and if you presume to judge that which is beyond your means then I will judge you in turn.’

Hesh held Covenant’s gaze for a second, and then bowed his head.

‘Your pardon, my lord.’

‘Continue,’ said Covenant.

‘Horusianism was an old belief, as old as the ordos themselves, some say. Its… followers sought a vessel to contain the ascended power of Chaos, and in so doing conquer Chaos. They sought to enslave Chaos to the service of mankind, to make the tormented the master, the enslaved the saviours of the future.’

Hesh paused, his mouth moving as though he was chewing something bitter and sharp.

‘They believed that the warp holds no evil that we do not put into it, that with great will and strength the powers that seek to destroy mankind may save it. They sought a dark messiah to be the avatar of Chaos, a being of Chaos who will bring Chaos to its knees.’

‘You say they were,’ said Viola.

‘Horusianism is a dead ideal. The last who professed its creed was Catullus Ven and he is a millennium in the grave.’

‘Ardena-Venusia?’ asked Covenant.

‘A rumour, never confirmed. Likely a move by the Solar Cabals to discredit her.’

‘You sound very certain,’ said Josef.

Hesh shot him a look.

‘I am. When Lord Vult took the seat of Inquisitorial Representative amongst the High Lords of Terra, he asked me to confirm the extinction of the Horusian ideal. I was thorough. I saw records that even the most exalted of my lord’s peers have not seen, past and ongoing. I burned through one hundred data-sift servitors in the task. Nothing was left to chance. I am certain.’

‘A lot of effort looking for signs of something that is supposed to be dead…’ said Viola.

‘My master was concerned with the stability and unity of the Imperium, and the Holy Ordos that protect mankind, and he did not believe in leaving risks to that stability uninvestigated.’

‘So he got you to check the grave to make sure the corpse of this dead ideology had not sprung back to life?’ asked Viola, arching an eyebrow.

‘Horusianism is not an ideal, it is a poison. You can see the shadow of its passing in the fragmentary records of wars within the ordos. Wars… not skirmishes between individuals of different convictions, but wars lasting centuries, battles fought in shadows and by means too terrible to think of. My master wanted to be certain that those days were gone.’

‘Why?’ asked Covenant.

Hesh looked at him.

‘My lord?’

‘Why did he want to be certain?’ asked Viola, her mind flowing forwards into the space left by Covenant’s question. ‘It was not whim, was it? What made Daemonhunter-Lord Vult think that the dead ideal of Horusianism might not be as dead as it seemed?’

For the first time since entering the chamber, Hesh looked uncomfortable.

‘Nothing… A heretical superstition.’

‘You will tell me,’ said Covenant, his voice low.

Hesh drew and let out a breath.

‘There was a… a prophecy… more an outpouring of insanity, in point of fact. A Black Ship entering the Solar System suffered a containment breach. A high-grade, unstable psyker began to manifest his nature. When he had been subdued he was conscious for several seconds. His words were recorded by the witch-keepers and passed to agents of the Inquisition on Terra.’

‘What did this psyker say?’ asked Viola.

‘I am not permitted to remember it in entirety,’ said Hesh, ‘just phrases from it.’

‘Those fragments?’

‘“Three born of judgement… bearer of cup, bearer of coin, bearer of crown… reborn, renewed, re-blessed…” That is all I am allowed to remember. The motifs in those phrases correspond to some of those found in the works of Catullus Ven, and in the writings of Inquisitor-Master Zaranchek Xanthus. Writings that related to the beliefs of Horusians and…’ Hesh trailed off, teeth closing over his tongue. Viola saw the muscles on his jaw tense.

‘Finish what you were going to say,’ said Covenant.

‘The writings concerned the appearance of a “prospect” for a vessel of Chaos – for the rise of their Dark Messiah.’

The silence lengthened through the seconds.

‘Yet you found no evidence that Horusians were active in the Inquisition?’ asked Covenant.

‘None. It was coincidence, the noise of the warp throwing up the heresies of the past.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Covenant. ‘But if Horusianism was dead then it has found resurrection. Its followers walk amongst the Inquisition again. They killed your master.’

‘Talicto was no Horusian,’ growled Hesh. He was angry, Viola realised. Despite his utter control and stillness he was vibrating with rage.

‘No, Talicto was half a decade dead already when your master and I found him.’

‘Then who?’

‘There are three,’ said Covenant. ‘A triumvirate within our ranks. They wear the faces of friends, but they have been following their path for a long time.’

‘You have proof?’ asked Hesh.

‘You do not need proof,’ said Covenant. ‘You have my word.’

‘Who are these three?’

‘I do not know,’ said Covenant.

Hesh laughed. The cold sound was so sudden and unexpected that Viola flinched.

‘Corpses and phantoms, lord… If you hoped that I could help you chase ghosts then you will find my service a poor thing.’

‘I do not want your help to hunt them,’ said Covenant, his voice steady. ‘I want your help to discover what they are trying to do.’

The man was dying when they reached his side. Ninkurra’s shot had ripped a scoop from the right-hand side of his neck and shoulder. Somehow he was still alive. Blood was pumping from him in time with his gasps. His eyes were open. They were blue, she noticed. He had a beard, black-streaked iron on a square jaw. He looked tough and strong, in the way that the land and open air, and worry of next season’s crop, breeds strength. He did not look like a saint, or a witch, but none of them ever did. The frost was still threading through his pooling blood. He opened his mouth and blood poured over his lower lip, bright red, crusting with ice as it fell. How he was still alive was a miracle, or the end of one at least.

‘Hush,’ said Memnon. He bent down beside the dying man, who extended a wet, red hand. Ninkurra flinched forwards, but Memnon raised a hand without looking up, and she froze. ‘This is peace. Whatever has befallen you before, whatever fears have grown inside you, they are gone now.’ Memnon put three fingers to his own forehead and then pressed them to the man’s forehead gently. The man stilled. ‘This was not your time, but know that this needed to happen. There is a purpose to everything, and you have served yours. Know that and know peace.’

The man’s eyes fluttered. His mouth moved once more, forming words that would never be heard.

Memnon stood, still looking down at the corpse. He pressed his hands to his eyelids and cheeks. Ninkurra heard the whisper of a prayer. His hands left bloody smears on his face when he lowered them.

Around them, smoke was rising from burning stubble. Flames licked soot over the shattered tabernacle. A burst of rotor-cannon fire blasted down from one of the circling gunships.

‘Make sure it’s complete,’ said Memnon, watching as distant figures in blue fell. The troopers were moving inwards from their drop positions. Ninkurra could hear the crack and fizz of lasguns. ‘No survivors.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ she said.

For Judith, for remaining married to a writer
in spite of the obvious drawbacks.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2018.
This eBook edition published in 2018 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Vladimir Krisetskiy.

Ciaphas Cain: Choose Your Enemies © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. Ciaphas Cain: Choose Your Enemies, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN: 978-1-78030-939-2

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