Better the Daemon You Know Part 3

by Extartius

After a period of two years of inactivity, the Orrax are reassigned to a new warzone. But all is not as it seems and events at Cardinal Voldt are set to spiral out of control in a war that could consume the sub sector.

1. He Came From the Ice

Better the Daemon You Know – Part 3

Chapter 1 – He Came From the Ice

The Orrax moon was the third satellite in orbit around the immense gas giant designated Cygni Alpha 36291. Known throughout the sector as the Penitent's Graveyard, it was little more than a barren, ice-bound rock. Its indentured population's only employment was in maintaining the sprawling ice-mines, wrapped up in thermal body-gloves that barely competed with the cold. The weather systems were brutal, hundreds died of exposure every year and new colonists were forced to adapt quickly or become just another statistic. Only the hardiest survived.

So it was that when a heavily pregnant woman was brought to the gates of the North Bastion, the guards took pity and brought her inside. Her cries echoed hauntingly through the long dark corridors of the infirmary annex as the medical orderlies fussed about her. They estimated that she had been in labour for several hours before her arrival. It wouldn't be long now.

High Warden Griffenbold stood outside the medical bay looking in from the corridor with his cruel-faced adjutant in tow. He'd come to see for himself these strange and unprecedented events as they unfolded. Some complication or other had called for the doctor's own attention. The woman was in a great deal of pain.

'Who is she, Eckman?'

'Setira Corgan, sir, convicted of harbouring a seditionist during the uprisings on Krai 9 six months ago.'

'Was she not checked? How is it that we did not know of this preganancy?'

'Well, sir, as you are aware ninety percent of our intake is male. It isn't in the admission protocols to routinely check for pregnancy. I propose that if she were to attempt to conceal her state it is unlikely that any of our staff would have noticed.'

'Then I trust you will make the required amendments to our admission protocols?'

'Of course, sir. Whatever you command.'

Griffenbold sighed, remembering the birth of his own child with a pang of regret. So many years ago and so much loss. He had come here to escape. To languish in the solitude that had been put upon him by fate.

'What are we going to do with them?' he murmured, almost to himself.

'I would suggest ejecting them as soon as they are stable, sir.'

Griffenbold rounded on his adjutant with a gleam of fury in his eyes. His was a cool authority, not given to fits of anger. It came as a surprise to Eckman to be subjected to even so small a show of emotion.

'Nonsense, Eckman. She must pay for her crimes, this has been decreed, but the babe is innocent. If the Emperor allows it to live, we should assume that he has a purpose in mind for it, just as he has for all his loyal servants.' He turned back to watch the delivery framed in the doorway. 'I will look into the possibilities…'

With a final keening wail the babe was wrenched from the woman's womb into the waiting arms of a medical orderly who quickly went about cleaning and wrapping it in soft towels. Not a murmur issued from its mouth, even as the nurses confirmed that it was breathing through cleared airways. Griffenbold could have sworn that those blue eyes studied him with an inhuman focus. He shuddered under the scrutiny and felt his accountability all the more keenly.

'The sooner we are rid of them the better…' he muttered.

'On that I could not agree more, sir,' Eckman replied.

xxx

Setira glared at him across the polished surface of his desk, the babe held close to her chest.

'You will not take my child.'

Griffenbold was an innately merciful man. His experiences had made him seem hard, a side-effect of the detachment he had suffered since the death of his wife and child. Nevertheless, he was a fair and merciful man, a trait that many thought incongruous to his duties. But he had always harboured a firm belief in the Emperor's beneficence. Those that were spared from death were given a chance to repent by trial and travail. This was his credo.

He didn't want to separate Setira from her child, but she must remain on Orrax to pay for her crimes and it was not fair to force the child to remain with her. The babe was the victim of chance and circumstance, whereas Setira was here as a result of the misguided choices she had made in the course of her life.

'Would you rather he froze to death?' He saw the conflict in her eyes and knew that although she may fight the inevitable, to keep her child was to condemn him.

'Let me introduce you to Officer Dowd,' he held a hand out towards the third occupant of the room, a bearded man in the uniform of a guard-sergeant, his features heavily lined with age. 'He has reached the end of his term with us and will return home within the week. I think it would be best if he took the child and placed him in the care of a certain convent on Necromunda. The Priory of Santa Luciana maintains an orphanage facility at Hive Primus where he will be raised in the Emperor's light. Dowd here is a father of three, he knows well how to care for a child and will ensure his safe passage to Necromunda.'

Setira eyed Dowd cautiously, weighing him up. Griffenbold could see the battle was won.

'I have always been loyal to the Emperor for myself,' she said, addressing the bearded veteran, 'I harboured a rebel, it is true, and thus sealed my guilt in the eyes of our glorious Administratum. But I tell you I was only ever guilty of loving a misguided man. If you promise to take my boy and see that he is raised well in the God-Emperor's house I will allow it, but may the Emperor damn your soul if he comes to any harm.'

So it was with these prophetic words that the babe, whom Setira named Escabar after his father, began his twenty year round trip to Necromunda and back.

Griffenbold felt a change come over him during that time. It was almost as though he had turned away from the threshold of death upon witnessing the seeds of new life blossom on this lifeless planetoid. And when Corgan returned by some twist of irony or fate or the will of the Emperor, it was like the return of a prodigal son.

xxx

A Second Homecoming – 577.M41, North Bastion, Orrax

Commissar-General Draven strode with purpose down the lander's ramp and onto the frosted rockrete landing pad. His brown leather greatcoat was fastened snugly about his spare frame to keep out the howling, high-speed winds that screamed through the precipitous vales of the Arbiter Floe. The thick, fur-lined collar was turned up and his peaked cap pulled firmly down so that only the triangle of his face was visible. On either side of him his fellow officers marched imperiously, similarly garbed but cringing against the cold wind, nervous of the altitude and keenly aware of the inadequacy of the hand-rail bolted around the edge of the panding pad.

The warden and his staff waited outside the atmosphere lock, stamping their feet to ward off the creeping cold but otherwise unconcerned by their surroundings. High Warden Griffenbold gripped the general's gloved hand as they came together.

'Welcome back to Orrax, Commissar-General,' he was forced to shout, but still his voice conveyed all the warmth lacking at that altitude.

'The pleasure is mine,' Draven drawled, a sardonic smile curling his thin lips. 'Shall we step inside, my good warden, as fine as the weather is today I'd rather not freeze my nose off…'

'Of course, Commissar.' Griffenbold beat a hasty retreat inside, followed first by the visiting delegation and then by his own staff, who cursed silently under their breath. The commissar turned to address the warden as the locks cycled.

'As usual the Adeptus Munitorium is landing the rest of the personnel and equipment out on the berg, although they'll probably wait for slightly more clement weather patterns. Apparently they've borrowed a few transport elements from the Valhallan VIIIth after last year's debacle.'

'It's a good idea.' Griffenbold replied, 'if anything the weather is worse this year.' The Warden led the party out into the stark corridor beyond. 'I took the liberty of having your usual quarters aired out and heated. The usual facilities will be available to you in order that you can brief your men before tomorrow's work. I take it you'll be starting as soon as the equipment has been landed?'

'Of course, Warden. You are as efficient as is your reputation, as per usual. I thank you. Let me present you with this year's crop.' He turned to introduce the men of his entourage.

'This is Centurion Primus Pilus Antios Maxillia,' a haughty, fresh-faced aristo held out a hand to greet the Warden. 'He's to command the Thirteenth. Would you believe he graduated top of his class at the Academy on Titan and requested this posting especially?' Draven's eyebrow lifted sardonically.

'Admirable, sir, truly admirable,' Griffenbold shook his hand.

Turning to a similarly garbed man, Draven presented Torak Bane. This man was not so full of his own pomp as the young Maxillia, but had an aura of power that came off him in waves.

'Bane was one of only a hundred and fifty to survive the destruction of the Third Penal Legion during the battle of Grace Fields,' Draven explained. 'He has been in command of the regiment throughout their occupation and will be on station to help muster our forces for the Crusade!'

'You are to be commended, sir,' Griffenbold gripped the man's hand firmly. He greatly appreciated being able to see the transmogrification of a man from mere criminal to paragon-of-virtue. It happened very rarely.

Maxillia seemed vaguely put out by the attention Bane received. Griffenbold was observant enough to note this, and wise enough not to comment.

'These others are Commissars Bokae, Hassel, Van Tomoyk and Benidon. Again, they are all volunteers for the task ahead. It seems that the Orrax Foundings are attracting quite a bit of attention, these days.' Draven shot the Warden a sly glance. It was unheard of for newly graduated Commissars to volunteer for this particular assignment, the life expectancy was not the greatest and there was little prestige to be gained.

'I'm sure no one could doubt their zeal, Commissar-General. Such a thing is to be admired in young and ambitious men such as these.'

'Just what I was thinking, Warden. It's as though you plucked the very thoughts from my mind,' Draven quipped.

'Well, just so long as nobody mentions calling in the Black Ships, sir…'

Both men enjoyed their banter, but this last comment drew suspicious looks from the younger officers of the Commissariat, which only deepened the older men's mirth. These two had always had a certain affinity and over the long years, though they only met infrequently, they had become good friends.

'Might I invite you and your staff to a formal dinner tonight, Commissar?'

'I would be honoured, Warden, but only if you allow me to contribute to the meal. I had some excellent produce shipped aboard when we stopped at Verdunia; fresh meat, fruits that will make your mouth water and some rather excellent wine from the vineyards of Talix Ultima.'

'That sounds reasonable to me, Commissar. Shall we say twenty thirty hours?'

'I look forward to it, Griff, old friend.'

xxx

'The Grox-tongue was exquisitely done, Griff, have you a new chef?'

'I put in a request for a decent culinare three years ago, Draven. They finally recognised that we deserved it a few months ago. I've been quite impressed so far but this is the first formal function we've had.'

'Pass on my compliments, will you?'

'Of course.'

The formality of the dinner went only as far as the service and the place settings. All rank had been dropped and an atmosphere of warmth and camaraderie held sway in pleasant contrast to the harshness of the moon's strident atmosphere.

Griffenbold's staff chatted amiably with Draven's retinue, the rest of whom had been brought down from orbit throughout the evening.

He recognised Intendant Vallister Koros of the Adeptus Munitorium, an emaciated skeleton of a man that buzzed with augmetic enhancements and picked over his meal in a bird-like fashion. He'd been charged with the monumental task of supplying the hardware for the eight regiments that were to be founded in preparation for the Crusade into the Varnum Cluster. He'd presided over the two previous Foundings and had returned to perform that task again on a more monumental scale.

Other names and faces were presented to him but in his old age it was all too much for him to take in. There were warrior priests of the Adeptus Ministorum, craggy missionaries with beetled brows and heavy frames who looked like they'd seen the worst the Imperium had to show them. Solid men, who would bolster the foundering faithless on the field of battle along with the commissars with their eager trigger fingers. Adeptus Arbites of the Praefectorum, prison guards turned soldier, made up a goodly proportion of the company. The rest was made up of hard-faced veterans from the battlefields of the last half-decade; Grace fields, Five Rivers and Gunga IV.

With the meal cleared away and the tables moved aside, Aurelian brandy was served to the accompaniment of the resident marching band. Griffenbold had always had an ear for musical talent and frequently put in transfer requests to ensure the pre-eminence of his band. Such things were important to his men, whose posting on this barren moon was often perceived as a kind of exile. They broke into a stirring rendition of Marcius' Sonata Dei Triomph and the Cycles that followed on while the formality of the occasion devolved into a more cordial gathering.

A young but grizzled commissar approach Griffenbold and introduced himself as Edric Vaughn of the now renowned 567th. The Warden vaguely recalled meeting a haughty young man of that name before, full of his own piss and vinegar if he remembered aright, the arrogance of youth. He seemed changed, a man where before he had been but a boy. Through the course of their conversation he gathered that since their victory at Gunga IV the regiment had been garrisoned at numerous stopover points throughout the Creon sub-sector. Vaughn was a little grey on the details, but they had taken in the sights of frontier worlds like Carpenium, as well as coreward population centres such as Vundt, Sarassa and even Necromunda. Matured as he may have been by his experiences in the last few years, Griffenbold nevertheless found him to be quite dull.

The night wore on. As he swam through a sea of new faces, exchanging meaningless pleasantries with men and women he didn't know, he spotted the one face he had least expected to ever see again. He had to blink and rub his eyes to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. He was older to be sure and his features harder, if that was possible. And not only was he still alive, but he appeared to be holding rank. The silver pins of a Major gleamed at his throat and although he wore no medals on his breast, the multi-coloured lanyard denoting his decorations was impressive.

He sat amidst the motley gathering of other grizzled veterans. They occupied a whole corner of the broad chamber with militant fervour and were drinking and smoking hard. Their dress uniforms hung upon them, unbuttoned at the throats and sleeves rolled up. Their boots were scuffed and worn in, their chests colourful with the lanyards denoting medals they had won.

These were almost certainly former inmates turned solder, survivors of the brutality of war that was a Penal Legion's lot. Always in the front line or bringing up the rear-guard, always neck deep in the dirtiest, most hellish fights a Guardsman could expect.

The shaven-headed Major sat at the centre of this gathering, with his feet propped up on a table and a thin black cigar clamped between his teeth. He ignored the din around him, content to be left alone. Griffenbold tugged at Draven's sleeve to get his attention.

'That fellow over there in the corner,' he asked.

'Ah, amongst the veterans, truly one of our greatest success stories, old friend. There stands the paragon of all that we wish to achieve through our endeavours here… a truly reformed character.'

'Yes but what's his name?' asked Griffenbold, suddenly impatient, his pulse rate quickening.

'Major Escabar Corgan of the Reformed 567th Orrax Grenadiers. He earned his pips at the Battle of the Five Rivers in 574 after he almost single-handedly took and held Pelloris Ridge.'

The name had sealed it.

'I thought I recognised him,' the warden muttered.

'You've met him personally, my dear Griff?'

'I knew him when he was here as a colonist, quite the troublemaker as I recall. Actually I have to admit to having a somewhat personal interest in this fellow…'

'You intrigue me, Griff. I know you pride yourself on your patriarchal role but I'd never seen you as the hands-on type.'

'I rarely am, Draven, but you see I was drawn into this boy's life in such a strange way that I can only explain it as being the will of the Emperor. The man you see before you, commissar, is the only true native to this barren world that I know of. He is the only babe ever to be born here and survive.'

'If I didn't know better…' Draven had a sly look on his face, 'I'd say that your patriarchal feelings for this particular young man run a little deeper than you're letting on.'

'He made a joke of it, actually,' Griff laughed. 'He used to call me da and said I was the closest thing he'd ever known. He grew up in a Sororitas convent, before he got himself into trouble.'

'I suppose he still bears a grudge, then. I wouldn't thank you either for consigning me to a world of celibacy…'

They laughed and Griffenbold felt new warmth spreading through him that he hadn't felt in years. Draven was right; he did have a fatherly interest in the boy. It was something he had never thought to experience after the tragedy of his own attempt at a family, back in the dim dark recesses of his personal history. It was a strange feeling indeed to see his adoptive son so suddenly and unexpectedly returned to him after so long. He remembered signing the release form, permanently handing the prisoner over to Draven's care. He had made that his final act of closure, refusing to cling on to any kind of futile interest in the boy. He had hoped, of course, that such a pass would come about, but he had refused to let himself become attached. That could only lead to a second tragedy akin to the first. He was too old to endure such a loss again.

xxx

They rolled out at 0700 hours sharp. Griffenbold rode with Draven in the lead APC. The vehicle was a Valhallan Pattern Chimera, insulated against the cold. This particular model was a command pattern, not fitted out to transport a squad. It was filled to a state of crampedness with pict relays, vox hardware and tactical consoles, with room for four command staff in the main compartment and two in the cab, including a driver and forward gunner. The turret itself had been replaced with a complicated system of aerials and radar sensor equipment but not much of it would function in Orrax's malevolent atmospheric turbulence. It was just as well they didn't need it, the first muster point was relatively easy to find there being only one road to connect North Bastion to the ice mines of the southern tundra.

Even so it was slow going. It took them three hours to get there and by the time they arrived Griffenbold was stiff as a board and far colder than if he had stayed at home. Then he had to venture outside and he realised just how well insulated the vehicle actually was.

The wind had died down, as if it had known that Draven would want to address the colonists gathered at the muster point, but the air still froze in his lungs and made him wheeze painfully. Griffenbold saw Corgan standing before the crowd of unruly prisoners at the foot of the stage on which he and the others stood. He had shed his dress uniform in favour of a black body-glove encased in interlocking plates of glossy white ceramite armour. He wore no sidearm, a wise decision considering his proximity to some of the most dangerous criminals in the sector.

He stood looking out, almost as though he was looking for faces he recognised. And then he actually moved into the crowd and was quickly enveloped by their shaggy, cold-sealed ranks. Griffenbold stepped up to stand beside Draven and tried to track him in the crowd. He was not speaking. It actually looked as if he were weighing the men up and assessing their worth. A few of them were taking exception to his regard.

As Griffenbold predicted it did not take long for a small gang of them to set upon the soldier, whose armour easily deflected the first of their blows. And yet the odds stood at five to one and Griffenbold saw no way the man could win in such circumstances.

He was wrong. The first man went down choking, his windpipe almost crushed by a wickedly fast blow to the throat. The second missed his first swipe as Corgan had dropped into a fighting crouch to deliver his first blow. He came back in for another as two more men tried to grapple Corgan from behind. The second man's fist thudded into the palm of Corgan's gauntlet, his fist locked in a vice-like grip, before a brutal twist put him on the ground. Griffenbold would have sworn the man's shoulder had been dislocated, but whatever, he was out of the fight.

A reverse head-butt sent one of the men tackling him from behind crashing back, losing his grip as he brought his hands up to his smashed nose. The other caught Corgan up in a bearhug that backfire when Corgan suddenly and forcefully jack-knifed, throwing the colonist over and onto the ground. A vicious kick to the head saw him into unconsciousness and Corgan turned to take the broken-nosed man off his feet with a sweep to the legs. Wisely the man opted to stay there. The remainder of his cohorts backed away, warily.

Corgan just sniffed and started back towards the armoured column. He aimed a diffident shrug in Draven's direction.

'Alright, Griff, showtime's over,' Draven chuckled. 'It's time to rally the masses to the Emperor's Word… for what it's worth.'

xxx

The last Griffenbold saw of Escabar Corgan was his back as he walked up the access ramp into the Arvus Lighter's compartment. Not once had the two men stood before each other. Not once had they exchanged words. Griffenbold wondered if the boy had forgotten him. He wouldn't put it past him, if only to infuriate the old man.

He could have made the overtures himself a thousand times during the months they had shared the same air and walked the same halls. But he knew why he hadn't. Fear. The fear of losing something he barely even knew he had.

He cursed himself roundly on the inside. Both for having these unwanted feelings in the first place and for pandering to them. Enough mooning around the place! Escabar Corgan had left him behind, or perhaps he blamed him for the experiences he had gone through. Either way, they walked two different paths in the Emperor's light, these days. And that was that! Let it go!

xxx

Biggs was a reassuring presence at his left elbow as the access ramp cranked up to seal the compartment, closing him off from the closest thing he'd known to a father.

'He'll always be here, you know.'

'Will he?' He'd looked so frail in the hard white light of Cygni Alpha's sun. 'I can't be so sure.'

A moment's silence passed.

'So why didn't you talk to him?'

Corgan sighed, his shoulders slumping.

'I tried. I stood outside the door to his rooms for nearly fifteen minutes and I couldn't bring myself to knock. I don't know why I couldn't do it,' he shrugged. But he did know

Everything they'd been through since Gunga, only two years ago. Everything they'd achieved. And most of it Griffenbold would never condone. He would never approve of the way in which Corgan chose to live. He would never understand why he did what he did. Corgan didn't even understand it himself.

'Maybe one day,' he said, and they left it at that.

xxx

As the Penal installation at Orrax gathered men and machines for the monumental undertaking of the Varnum Crusade, the Thirteenth Orrax Penitent Legion was formed up and dispatched for the Ministorum ruled world of Cardinal Voldt. Deployed alongside them were the 567th Orrax Grenadiers, whose experience of urban warfare on Fered Roathi would hopefully prove invaluable. It was hoped that their deployment would be able to bring about a swift and decisive end to the protracted campaign at Hive Trachiad.