The hive world's grey sky gifted D'Artois' face with stinging pellets of water. It was a long walk to where he was going and there was no cover from this incessant rain. D'Artois hated the constant gloom of the Aelmi sky. He came from an agri world where the sky was a beautiful shade of green and the air was crisp, tasting sweet from the crops grown around his family's farm. But of course, that was before the Orks came.
As the reports of Orks began circulating around Manev, his family was able to board one of the last crop transports leaving the planet. The transport brought them to the hive world of Aelmi. It was here that D'Artois came into adulthood. Not wishing to suffer the same ignominious fate as his parents, he honed his skills and became an acolyte of the Imperial Inquisitor, Raynd Turis of the Ordo Hereticus. Despite his youth, D'Artois became an interrogator under Inquisitor Turis. However, his ambition of becoming an inquisitor himself was in jeopardy after a Rogue Psyker ended Inquisitor Turis' days with a volley of psykic bolts. D'Artois survived the encounter, but he still wasn't potent enough to be commissioned as an inquisitor himself by the Ordo Hereticus. The Emperor's will manifested itself, and an associate of Inquisitor Turis decided to finish D'Artois training.
It had been a grueling five years under the service of Inquisitor Honssay Warhin. Not only was D'Artois expected to operate independently of Warhin for the majority of the assignments, but most of these assignments ended up in philosophical arguments with D'Artois' quarry. Every cultist encountered would inevitably try to convince him of the false righteousness of the Emperor and the truth of whatever God they were worshipping. It ended the same: D'Artois reaffirming the verity of the Emperor, another interrogated soul sent to the warp, and the critique filled debriefing by Warhin. Their relationship had not always been so dry and rough. As a matter of fact it had been rather amicable with the occasional drink together. But over the course of the following years D'Artois noted that Warhin had become less and less warm and more and more fond of giving D'Artois the incessant independent hunts of the heretic.
D'Artois' attention snapped back to the task at hand as he turned into an alley. There, leaning against the wall were two cloaked figures. One was about the height of D'Artois, although leaner, and the other a brute of a man. More like an Ogryn than a man at all. Both their faces were hidden beneath hoods.
"Are you D'Artois?" the smaller of the two asked, in a voice rather deep for his size.
"Yes, and please lead the way to this heretic." D'Artois wasn't pleased with the current assignment. Warhin had unceremoniously told D'Artois earlier that day that he would meet two contacts that would lead him to the leader of a local cult, and help D'Artois eliminate said leader. It wasn't the lack of timing that bothered D'Artois, it was that he didn't know these two men who guided him down various twisting paths. Warhin had vouched for these two, saying that they were true penitents and were spared further torture, so they may now lead D'Artois to the cult's sanctum. D'Artois had insisted that he bring along one or two trusted henchmen, but Warhin had declined, saying all were needed for a much higher priority raid on yet another rogue psyker.
The paths were dizzying to D'Artois and he wondered if these two men actually knew which way they were going. He scratched his goatee and wiped off the acidic rain onto his armor. Once he heard a light scuff of something behind him, causing him to instinctively grab his gun, but soon followed a howling of dogs fighting over some spare scrap of meat and D'Artois eased his grip. He began to check his equipment to ensure that all was working…just in case. His personal armor was fastened securely under his thin coat, which was still rather tight. D'Artois was average height but not of average girth. He was built more like a brawler than an assassin, but many made their last mistake thinking that he was slow. On his left side hung the dueling sword of Inquisitor Turis, a sword with a history as rich as Terra itself. The name of the sword died with Turis and D'Artois had yet to find inspiration for a new name. Hidden under his coat, as well as it could be anyway, was a bolter-flamer combi. Rather aggressive for an interrogator to carry, but D'Artois preferred a hot offense to a cold defense.
"We're here," the Ogrynish man said.
D'Artois found himself standing at the entrance to an abandoned, centuries-old chapel of the Emperor. The irony was too good for D'Artois not to allow himself a slight chuckle. D'Artois took the lead and entered the granite edifice. It was cold, and smelt of rust and urine. The building must have been forgotten as the hive world developed, but it was remarkably intact. Statues of the emperor still stood, with some showing him as the God of humanity in priestly robes. Others depicted him in his full glory before his ascension to the golden throne. Each of the statues were staring at the altar in the center of the hall, where happened to also stand the cultist leader.
"Welcome to our sanctum, and I am Deam. As you see, all of our worshippers have gone home for the evening, leaving just me." He looked past D'Artois and saw the two penitents. "And I see that you have two of our deacons with you." Deam's voice was very soothing, almost melodic in nature and D'Artois could easily see how the misguided people of Aelmi could be deceived by such a creature. "Deacon Yeal, Deacon Stium, will you be making an offering tonight?"
Being tired of getting into arguments with local heretics; D'Artois decided to end this assignment quickly, after all Warhin had told him to kill, not capture. So he felt little issue with dispensing with introduction and took aim at Deam with his bolter-flamer combi. D'Artois was a little surprised that despite having a gun aimed at him from little more than 40 meters away, Deam had a wry smile.
The pain was excruciating. The small of his back sent pain not only to his brain, but to the rest of his body. He could feel the melted armor bite his skin, and D'Artois could only surmise what had just taken place. He opened his eyes to see himself lying on his back, facing one of the robed statues of the Emperor. Its grey eyes looked past him towards the two "penitents," reminding D'Artois that now was not the time to reflect on pain. D'Artois tilted his head back to see two upside down figures quickly drawing in. In the hand of the Ogryn man was a power fist that began charging again. He must have struck D'Artois in the back before the power fist was fully charged. But the time for reflection had past, and now was the time for a little hot offense.
The two "penitents" were a little less than 10 meters away, one now with a fully charged power fist and the other wielding two sabers. Still on his back, D'Artois flipped the switch on his bolter-flamer combi and pointed the gun between the two men. Their surprise was evident when instead of a blue beam missing and passing between the both of them, a red flame erupted from the gun enveloping half of their bodies. D'Artois was satisfied to see immolation of cloth and skin. Neither man made much of a sound as scorched flesh fell from their bodies. After a three second burst, all that remained were two cauterized corpses and the pungent stench of burnt flesh.
D'Artois rose to his feet to see three cult acolytes emerge from behind several statues. D'Artois cursed himself for thinking that Deam was truly alone, and then methodically ducked behind a statue as the acolytes' bolt guns began spraying blue beams. The surging adrenaline coursed through his body, banishing any thought of pain, but it wouldn't be a pleasant day tomorrow.
Two of the acolytes provided cover fire while a third, bearing a power maul, closed in on D'Artois. Instead of being content to just step around the statue to engage the interrogator, the acolyte found it much more satisfying to smash through the torso of the statue. Pebble and stone struck D'Artois as he found that his cover had been effectively removed.
The acolyte had over-extended himself in order to smash the statue, creating an opening for D'Artois. With a quick draw of his sword and an even quicker swing, D'Artois sliced the acolyte's throat, effectively spraying blood back in D'Artois' face. The blood tasted more than just metallic; there was a taint to it that made D'Artois gag. A blue beam whizzed past his head, making a sizeable scar on the granite wall behind him, and D'Artois ducked again behind the nearest statue that wasn't missing its upper torso.
Deam ducked behind the altar while the two remaining acolytes flanked him. D'Artois darted in and out of the numerous statues, avoiding fire and returning it when possible. One lucky shot by D'Artois was able to strike an acolyte in his shoulder; effectively dropping him and causing him to scramble behind a nearby statue. As Deam saw yet another of his acolytes drop, he retreated further back into the chapel. D'Artois knew that the hit acolyte would return soon and needed to press the advantage. He ducked and rolled behind every statue until he got behind one that was all of five meters to the altar. The acolyte, foolish enough to still be standing at the altar, began to panic. His enemy, having drawn too close, caused the acolyte to fire very rapidly in the direction of D'Artois. The statue absorbed all the hits that came its way and the acolyte ran out of ammunition.
D'Artois struck during the moment of reload. He charged with his sword drawn; it was humming with a blue aura that harvested fear from the bravest of men. D'Artois' charge left him open to a counter attack from the acolyte with the wounded arm, who had emerged from behind his cover and took aim. D'Artois decided that following through with the charge was the best path to survival, and devised an evasive maneuver after the altar acolyte's execution. This plan was soon unnecessary, as before the wounded acolyte could pull the trigger a stray bolt struck him in the head, leaving a bloody circle on the wall behind him. D'Artois said a prayer of thanks for the suspected poor aim of the Deam./
Inquisitor Turis' sword hummed with joy as the blood of the heretic acolyte dripped off its tip. The blade had pierced the acolyte's heart and emerged from the back. D'Artois brought the blade up diagonally, causing it to slice through the trachea and jugular. He turned his attention to Deam taking cover behind the statue furthest back in the chapel. The only sound made was the dull thud of the dead acolyte.
"You think you have won, don't you?" Deam's voice no longer melodic, but rather hoarse and almost metallic. "You think that your God has helped you prevail once again? You are wrong!" Deam stood and rent his robe. "My God will prevail. My God is more powerful than all, created in ancient times, created by the hearts of the Eldarr. Daemonette of Slaanesh come forth, and show your master's power!"
From the shadows emerged a creature that instilled a horror upon D'Artois never before experienced. Her skin was ebony, with silvery hair that reminded him of the elegant chains worn by the priests of the emperor. As the horror of beholding a demon from the Warp froze his body, her beauty eliminated his resolve. Euphoria washed over his body, a feeling as warm as it was alien, which eventually settled itself in his heart. He was astonished that during this moment of paradoxical wonder, the Daemonette closed the distance between the two. It was only through pure reflex that D'Artois began to reach for his sword. This action didn't matter, however; the Daemonette already grabbed his armor with her claws and had lifted him to meet her gaze.
D'Artois quickly realized that he couldn't feel the floor anymore and noticed that she was a head taller than him. A new wave of awe and horror washed over him as her eyes pierced his own. They were red and unforgiving; a perfect reflection of the chaos warp he heard so much about. He shifted his eyes further down and noticed a row of serrated teeth. The Daemonette curled her lips into what seemed to be a smile. He could only surmise what she was planning to do, and he guessed it wouldn't be as pleasant as the artificial peace he felt now.
D'Artois felt for his sword but couldn't find the hilt, nor could he feel the weight of his gun on his belt. His eyes frantically searched for a clue to the missing artifacts of salvation and noticed them both at the feet of the Demon. When did he drop his weapons? D'Artois cursed himself for being so easily disarmed and began his death prayers. It was evident that she relished in the emotions of D'Artois: fear, anger, despair, regret, acceptance, wanting to savor the taste of each one before she presented him with death. "…that as in life, so too in death I will serve thee…" D'Artois' internal recitation continued despite the cackling of both the Daemonette and Deam, "…being true to thee as I have fought the mutant, the heretic, the xenos, the demons from without and those found within. Now in death I come to…" D'Artois paused recalling part of the prayer again. "as I have fought…the demons from without…" To end his life without fighting this Daemonette of Slaanesh would make him a liar to the Emperor, and he couldn't die with that sin fresh on his lips. D'Artois began a new prayer to the Emperor "Holy Emperor who guides us in life, who through his pure light emboldens man against his enemies. Grant unto me thine light, thine wisdom, thine strength. Not for the glory of myself, for I am but one of many. But for the glory of thee and thine vast empire, give unto me thine light, thine wisdom, thine strength, so I may afflict thy enemies as they afflict thy servants." At the completion of this prayer, D'Artois focused all his being into his fist and swung at the Daemonette.
He hit the floor hard as she recoiled from the blow. D'Artois was stunned at the sight. Where there was once a face capable of enslaving men with its beauty, now there was a blood soaked visage with no lower jaw. The tongue hung as shards of bone fell away from the hinges of her mouth. His bewilderment grew even more as he looked down at the weapon that caused such an impact. He heard the sound of cackling energy emanating from his fist, and saw white electric arcs jumping from one knuckle to another. Never one to lose the advantage, D'Artois jumped to his feet and came at the Daemonette with renewed resolve.
Flesh was torn away from her body with each blow. Bone was no obstacle as he easily broke each of her arms while she defended herself. D'Artois was able to stun her after a particularly savage blow to where her heart should have been. Using the lapse in defense, he placed all of his strength into an uppercut to her face. Her skull burst open, sending fragments of bone and brain to various corners of the chapel. D'Artois looked around him, curious if any other threats would emerge, but only found statues with looks of approval.
Deam stood frozen, only able to drop the bolter gun in his hand. D'Artois bent over and picked up his sword and turned toward the leader. The old man's eyes, wide with terror, spoke his final words, "Owa sareja, Warhin."
D'Artois left Warhin's room infuriated. Not only did Warhin seem surprised at D'Artois' arrival for the debriefing, but seemed to be more and more upset as D'Artois recounted the deaths inflicted upon the cult. Had Warhin wanted them taken alive, he should have specified so during the briefing. Perhaps Warhin had been embarrassed for being so easily deceived? That would be understandable, considering Warhin had an abnormally large ego for an Inquisitor and didn't even seem to recite his prayers to control pride.
The interrogation of D'Artois' recent mission ended with the numerous criticisms made by Warhin. Most notably, he cited that D'Artois should have fled when he noticed it was a trap. Warhin dismissed D'Artois' account of the slaying the Daemonette of Slaanesh as fanciful. He could handle a lot of criticism; after all, he was only an interrogator. But for Warhin to question his integrity was a most grievous betrayal. After five years of faithful service to Warhin, to have his honor placed in doubt created a sore wound. D'Artois had been so flustered at this, he had forgotten to mention the final words of the cultist leader.
He would need to report these words to Warhin, especially because Warhin's name was mentioned. But D'Artois would go to the Imperial Library tomorrow to translate the phrase and then report back. Less to have something substantial to report and more in hopes that Warhin would be in a better mood next time D'Artois saw him.
The tomes were dusty and D'Artois sneezed often as the servo scribe brought in tome after tome into the small study room. It had been a long morning and afternoon of finding clues to the translation of the words. D'Artois would assume that they were some sort of curse the cultist tried to place on Warhin before his demise, but assumptions are a very dangerous thing, and D'Artois wanted to make sure.
"Are you sure he said Owa sareja?" the scribe servo asked. "Because if it was Owa charga then that would mean Life unto death in the Mercadian cult."
"Why are you checking the Mercadian cult?" D'Artois inquired, rubbing his still wounded back, "I already mentioned that he was a worshipper of Slaanesh. We should be searching there."
"As I've said before, those records are only to be seen and read by the Master of the Tomes," the scribe responded in a very mechanical tone. "And until we have searched the other documents then there is no viable reason to request his services."
D'Artois resigned himself to several more hours of fruitless searches and constant inquiries if he heard the phrase right. He let his mind wander and analyzed the previous day's work. It didn't matter to D'Artois that he survived the fight, there was too much luck and not enough skill. He noted that the charge to the altar was foolish with that other acolyte still around. That was one problem with luck; it can't be trusted.
After falling asleep for an hour or two the servo scribe woke D'Artois with a sharp whine. "All tomes have been read in reference to Owa sareja, with no translation being found. You may now request the services of the Master of the Tomes. Shall I contact him for you?"
"Yes, please. How long until he will be able to meet with me?"
"He should be available shortly." The servo scribe left abruptly, seemingly content to have completed another research query. His heavily augmented body and cranium wobbled slightly as he bumped a chair or two, and eventually disappeared behind a large bookcase.
Little did D'Artois know that "shortly" meant well after nightfall. He regretted not giving this task to Deloa, the personal scribe to Warhin. Being an Interrgator in Warhin's service did provide a few perks to the job. The other henchman recognized D'Artois as second in command, whose orders were only superseded by Warhin himself. However, none made themselves available to D'Artois for anything other than work. Oft he would see the lot of them going to grab a drink to enjoy each other's company and recite tales of adventures past, never inviting D'Artois to come along. D'Artois truly had a family with Inquisitor Turis, all sharing with each other hopes and dreams as well as disappointments of the past. They fought heretics with fury, each knowing that they were protected by the man or woman from behind. But Warhin's group was different for D'Artois. They were cold, calculating, ready to sacrifice one another to achieve the goal at hand. It had been a shock to see such a group, and it amazed D'Artois that very few henchmen had died in the last five years. However, they were rotated out often. At one point D'Artois kept track of all the different men Warhin called upon, but lost count after a hundred or so.
D'Artois was startled in the middle of his thoughts when an old man crept into the room. His bionic implants seemed to be as old as he was, taking on a dull and rusty appearance. "Forgive my lateness, Interrogator D'Artois."
"Don't worry, Master of the Tomes, there was nothing else for me to do today."
"I understand there is a phrase you need translating."
"Yes, it was originally said by a worshipper of Slaanesh and I would've liked to have started my search there but…"
"Ah yes, the protocol. Quite bothersome that is. Keeping people away from perfectly good tomes and such. But alas it is there for a reason. Now please repeat for me the phrase."
"Owa sareja, Warhin"
The old man closed his eyes and his bionic implants began to give a slight green glow. One behind his ear even gave off what appeared to be a jet of steam. D'Artois quickly realized that the tomes in question were actually part of him. He was amazed at the forethought of keeping forbidden knowledge protected like this from the wayward eye.
"You are slayer of the alliance, Warhin."
"Excuse me?" D'Artois' face contorted with part bewilderment and part fear, hoping that the translation was misheard.
"I'm sorry, that was a very rough translation. You see this language is heavy in nouns which have innate definitions of…"
"Please, just repeat your original translation."
"You are slayer of the alliance, Warhin. Would you like me to refine it more? I could even place it in proper Imperial Gothic, or any dialect you wish."
"No, no." D'Artois quietly said. "Thank you for your help." D'Artois turned and exited the small room. It was a long walk back to his personal quarters and the time gave clarity to the previous five years with Warhin.
It had been another long day for Inquisitor Honssay Warhin. His aging body was giving way quickly under the stress of day to day activities. But soon that would no longer be an issue. Death had never appealed to Honssay, and he spent most of his life preventing such an inopportune occurrence. He counted it serendipitous when during an interrogation of a heretic, he heard the words "promise of immortality" escape the dying man's lips. He had never really been a religious man, but he became a devote worshipper of a God that day.
It had been a very laborious few decades. What with recruiting henchmen who were able to be manipulated or bribed into keeping Honssay's personal religious viewpoints a secret, and tasks related to such viewpoints. The first decade or so resulted in many deaths of underlings whom Honssay had misjudged. But the last decade or so, he was able to hone his craft of enlisting and find the most promising of recruits.
However, one failure was being flaunted in his face. Honssay had taken D'Artois under his wing in hopes of having another individual with inquisitor skills counted among his allies. But the attempts to persuade D'Artois to the religion that Honssay prescribed were fruitless; it even seemed to engender a greater faith of the Emperor in that boy. Even more frustrating still were the attempts at removing D'Artois from his service, with the most recent fiasco being the loss of one of the demons in Honssay's service due to the incompetence of Deam.
After having put into practice some of the interrogation skills of his craft on D'Artois, Honssay felt comfortable that he still didn't suspect a thing. But D'Artois was becoming more and more of a burden that would need to be lifted shortly. He hadn't seen the boy for a few days now which was deemed a relief, because when D'Artois was around, everyone was on edge.
Honssay's thoughts were a reprieve from the trip home from a local sanctum of his God with five of his most trusted henchmen: two warriors, his scribe Deloa, and two cherubim. The two warriors and one cherubim walked in front of him while the other cherubim and Deloa flanked Honssay. All were exceptional in a fight, even Deloa, and Honssay felt slightly invincible as he walked down the alleyway towards his quarters. He took this path often not worried that anyone would notice him go down sullied alleys. This was his area of jurisdiction and no one would dare question his authority or purpose. Honssay had been very careful during his time as an inquisitor and allowed himself to relax a little from time to time, as his goal of immortality was coming to fruition.
The price of immortality wasn't as high as he had expected. Just a few human sacrifices in both blood and service each week was all that was needed. And after decades of such sacrifices, he soon would be able to count himself amongst the immortals. So why bother watching his back anymore.
As the meltabombs landed, Warhin was glad he was looking ahead.
D'Artois was very pleased as the first of the grenades hit the alleyway below. He had spent the last few days accumulating supplies for this trap. He didn't have the same requisitioning power as an Inquisitor, but as an Interrogator he had enough. And these supplies were put in good use as the four grenades slammed into the heretical party below.
One of the warriors, Beulo, was vaporized instantly as two of the grenades impacted in front and to the left of him. The other warrior, Kabai, was able to withstand the explosions with the help of the cherubim who was incinerated. The other cherubim protected Warhin from any damage as D'Artois intentionally placed the other two grenades near him. Deloa bionics were severly disrupted during the explosions, as now she was little more than a pile of flesh and metal.
D'Artois leaped from his hiding place to close in on Kabai, who was still trying to regain stability after the explosions. D'Artois drew his sword and it hummed gleefully in expectation of tasting the blood of a heretic once again. The massive veteran warrior saw the charge and managed to parry the first blow with his power maul, but this set the warrior off balance. D'Artois slashed his sword down on the inner thigh of Kabai. Veins and arteries ruptured as Turis' sword cut vital tendons. This effectively brought Kabai to his knees, allowing D'Artois to gain a greater advantage in maneuverability. Kabai made a frantic swing at D'Artois with his power maul fully charged, but instead of deflecting the maul D'Artois simple dodged the swing by rolling to his right. Kabai was noticeably surprised at the nimbleness of D'Artois. This surprise was still present on the man's face well after D'Artois thrust his sword upwards through Kabai's left side, piercing his heart.
D'Artois turned his attention to Warhin, who was but five meters away. After regaining his senses, Warhin pulled his Inferno pistol and took a snapshot at D'Artois. The shot grazed D'Artois' shoulder, causing immediate immobilization of his right arm. Hoping that Warhin wouldn't be as potent in a close combat, D'Artois switched Turis' sword to his left hand. As D'Artois lifted his sword and began to tighten the distance, he was thrust backwards against the wall by an unseen force.
His mind began searing with pain, as if someone was hurdling invisible lances directly to his brain. D'Artois couldn't focus his thoughts or open his eyes to see the source of such anguish. He rolled to his left in an attempt to dodge the lances; however, they grew more potent as he heard methodical footsteps approaching. The lances stopped as abruptly as the footsteps did, although the pain continued as sharply as ever.
"So you thought you'd be able to ambush and kill me did you?" Warhin gave D'Artois a sharp kick in the ribs, causing D'Artois to cough up blood. "I may be old, but I'm still able to hold my own, especially against a kid such as yourself." Warhin looked D'Artois over, slightly impressed with what D'Artois had just accomplished. But this pride quickly vanished as a new wave of fury swept over him. "Tell me boy, how did you finally figure it out? Did you follow me, who did you interrogate?"
With blood still dripping from his mouth, D'Artois was able to finally pry open his eyes to see Warhin standing over him. Despite being slightly shorter than D'Artois himself, right now Warhin seemed like a giant, and D'Artois knew that Warhin will kill him soon regardless of outcome, so why not maintain integrity to the end? "The…cultist leader…he...he let it slip. Owa...owa sareja, Warhin."
"Ah, so the little worm gave you the clue. You know I didn't believe you when you said that you had managed to escape my little trap by killing everybody. But then I went to the sanctum of Slaanesh myself and saw your handiwork. Pretty impressive." Warhin gave D'Artois another kick, but this time to the face. "Just so you know, you really haven't hurt me at all. Henchmen are disposable, and we both know that I have plenty more to call upon. And you haven't been able to even scathe me, even a little. How does it feel to die with so little accomplished? Hmm?" Warhin stepped back and drew his sword, raising it over his head for the final thrust. He even allowed himself a slight chuckle as D'Artois closed his eyes, anticipating the final impact.
Warm blood surged across D'Artois' face, eventually enveloping his entire being with warmth. Even the pain of his mind seemed to be erased in a second and D'Artois wondered if this was the final reward for the faithful who follow in the light. He slowly opened his eyes and looked toward the sky, but it was an all too familiar swirling gray. His hand was still gripping the rubble of the alleyway below him. D'Artois looked at his killer and noticed a very peculiar sight.
Protruding from the middle of his chest was a type of blade D'Artois had never seen before. It had various glowing runes along the edge of the blade, and a faint silver hue surrounding the swords entirety. The sword then began to twist back and forth, acting as if to free itself. The corpse finally let go of the blade with a sickening sound of bone grating metal, and made its final resting place next to D'Artois. He looked over at Warhin's eyes, still showing the hatred for D'Artois, enveloped in darkness.
D'Artois looked up and saw the wielder of the blade. A hooded woman stood over him, her lithe figure hiding behind light black armor. The silvery tip was now being pointed at him. He looked up to see if he could decipher her intentions but she stood solid as stone. He shifted a little to more of a sitting position and the blade was thrust to his chin. D'Artois froze his movements; he was still unable to speak and decided to wait the tense moment out. He noticed several symbols and chains attached to her garb, recognizing them immediately. He had met a Calludus Assassin only a handful of times during his apprenticeship. They were cool headed warriors, every action was planned carefully, and emotion never overruled good judgment.
He heard footsteps and saw several shadows emerge from various crevices and balconies in the alleyway. On the balcony behind the assassin a camouflaged man emerged. He had bionic eyes and a highly polished, large caliber gun; this must be a Vindicare Asssassin. From either side of the alleyway emerged two more Death Cult Assassins. Wearing similar armor as the woman in front of him, but their heads were not hooded. Rather, they let their hair flow behind them and had goggles to cover their eyes. These four assassins had effectively doubled the number of assassins met from Officio Assassinorium.
"Well, looks like you've just been through the warp," said a very gruff voice.
D'Artois shifted his eyes towards the voice, minding still that a blade was centimeters away from his throat. From another alley a large man emerged. But in further inspection it wasn't that the man was large, but that the armor he wore was heavy. A rosary and several manuscripts bearing the Emperor's seal hung from his armor. His hair was peppered, and he had a long flowing beard which was streaked with white in the midst of black. Various armaments hung from his side, many of which D'Artois had never before seen.
"You may put your blade away now. I doubt this one will give us any trouble," the armored man directed the assassin. He crouched before D'Artois and gave him a scrutinizing look. "While I rarely tolerate individuals interfering with my work, you were quite the exception. You put on a good show, especially in how you handled that daemon." He gave deep hardy laugh. "Such vigor in serving the Emperor is always commendable. Tell me lad, why did you attack this Inquisitor all alone?"
D'Artois cleared his throat, "It was my duty, sir, to bring him to justice. He was in my jurisdiction."
"A fool hardy move that would have gotten you killed had it not been for fortune." The armored man stood and gave a single hand. The assassins turned around and faded back into the shadows without noise.
D'Artois pulled himself to his feet, leaning against the wall for support while he recovered his bearings. He bent over to pick up Turis' sword, still humming with joy as blood still ran freely along its blade. He placed the sword in his scabbard and was about to hinge his combi gun to his belt when a thought came to him. Instead of fastening it, he dropped it unceremoniously next to Warhin. He knelt and picked up Warhin's Inferno pistol and fastened it to his belt, saddened that such a noble weapon was reduced to serving a corrupt man. D'Artois closed his eyes, thankful that this ordeal was over, but realized that once again he was out of a job.
"Well, aren't you coming?"
D'Artois looked up to see the armored man poking his head from around the corner. "Coming, Sir?"
"Of course! Just because Honssay Warhin is dead doesn't mean that peace reigns supreme once again," he said with a slight smirk on his face.
D'Artois allowed himself a slight chuckle as well. "You know, if we are to work together, I need to know something."
"Oh, and what would that be?"
"Who are you?"
"I'll answer that with another question."
"Which is?"
"What do you know about the Ordo Malleus?"