Chapter 9
023.M42
Vespor, Huldah subsector, Syntyche sector
Hurtling from the narrow vortex, a skull-masked shade of jet black and ivory bone nimbly skipped over the cobblestones before halting. Unable to match the Harlequin's grace, the human tumbled after him. Clad in silver trimmed black carapace, his unsteady feet found solid ground and with that, the man vomited. The gateway closed, leaving a hazy smear in the air until it too dissipated. Deposited on Vespor the wanderers looked to their surroundings. Night had fallen on Pytren Hive, and with it, an ominous presence. They stood in a narrow alleyway, the sloping street choked with refuse and puddles of foul water. Wisps of fog pooled and curled in the lowest sections of the lane.
Shouldering his heavy weapon, Margorach turned to the Ordo Xenos Inquisitor. "Congratulations for holding your meal until you were outside. Some of you have enough sense not to pollute the Webway. Perhaps your race has manners yet." Speaking fluent Low Gothic, Margorach's accent made it difficult for Gren to understand his words.
Gren smiled half-heartedly and wiped his lips. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought it was risky travelling the Webway to a potentially compromised planet."
"Sometimes there are no other options. Let's see how close we are to our destination."
Margorach merged into the dense shadows as he crept along the alleyway. The Eldar peered around the fog-shrouded corner, his shuriken cannon ready. Gren readied his hellgun, standing next to the Death Jester. The Inquisitor was on edge and had every right to be. Travelling by obscure means to a planet being engulfed in a Warp storm meant grave risks. Gren did not want to engage in a protracted firefight with any enemy. He hoped Margorach was of a similar mind. To carry out his mission Gren had been forced to take additional precautions entering Vespor. Even then, he went willingly only because of what lay at stake.
The subsector governor's palace dominated Pytren Hive. Connected by a colossal suspension bridge, the citadel's lower levels appeared untouched. The upper spires, an amalgamation of guild houses and manses, were wreathed in clouds different to the pollution coiling around the rest of the hive city. Unnatural lights flickered in the mist. Substantial shapes were hinted at, their true size remaining cloaked. The moons illuminated all of Pytren Hive, their light seeming to warp everything it touched.
Fortified by the weapon in his grip, Margorach checked the flip-belt's gravitational field. Readied, the Death Jester stepped away from the safety of the alleyway and out on the open causeway. It was empty. As far as his sharp eyes saw, the esplanade was deserted. Every reflex honed to an unearthly degree, Margorach passed from twilit shadows to the weak pools of light cast by street lumens. His image burst into a distorting whirl of chromatic crystals with the quick movement, sickening Gren just to follow the Harlequin's passage.
"What we search for is there," the Death Jester said. "If you cannot feel its suffocating weight, consider yourself blessed." An elegant finger pointed at the blasted, damning citadel. From the crystal and black marble the contamination seeped into the world. Vapour spilled from the palace's gaping portcullis, the spawning ground of daemons.
Margorach had felt the corruption from the Webway, a persistently growing tumour. So close to the font on Vespor, it hit him like a sledgehammer to the stomach. He sensed the psychic disruption to the physical plane as an undertow threatening to draw him down. Only by the Shadowseer's runes was Margorach able to resist its sinister pull. Even then, the Death Jester knew the shield would fail over time without reinforcement. Gren, having no psychic potential, remained unaffected. Margorach wondered how long until the mon-keigh came under the Warp's taint. He doubted the runes Shadowseer Carrenad bequeathed to Gren would protect the human the closer they came to Pytren Hive.
"Where is everyone?" asked Gren. He kept pace with Margorach, trusting the Harlequin to know the way. It was difficult to see in the thickening fog. "I thought with the time shifts supposedly caused by the artefact, there would be people caught in its-"
Gren stopped talking. Margorach spun about when the human went silent, shuriken cannon raised against a potential threat. Gren's halt was not because of a threat but a gruesome discovery. Standing before a human frozen in place, Gren examined the unfortunate man. An Imperial citizen, the man was fixed in a pose suggesting his movements had been halted mid-motion. In his eyes Gren made out minuscule movements. A gust of wind came up; sending a wave of fog billowing over the man, and when the mist lifted the space was unoccupied.
Further up the promenade, Gren saw others trapped in a similar manner. People dressed in crushed velvet and satin finery looked as if they had been cast from wax. In the moons' watery light, it held a macabre appeal as the effluvium moved them about. Frozen forever in poise but not in place, Gren had his answer. Caught in the time distortion, Pytren Hive's citizens stood unmoving in pockets of time. There was no sound. Anything above a moderate voice was rendered mute by the haze, and the strange vapour swallowed the Inquisitor and Harlequin's footsteps.
"Time preserves them," Margorach whispered. They warily advanced, the barrel of the Death Jester's cannon sweeping through the fog. Gren reached out to touch one of the people. Frustrated, Margorach struck his hand away. "It is wiser not to touch them, Inquisitor, unless you contract what they have. Curiosity kills."
"The Warp's influence is worse than I thought. I need to find an astropath, a chancery... anything to get a message off-world."
Vespor's state was degenerating faster than Gren thought, with the implications to the subsector's security too dire to comprehend. Thoughts of a second exterminatus in the sectorplagued his mind. Centering his attention on the gathering hunters shifting in the mist, Margorach's finger hovered over the shuriken cannon's trigger. Wraith-like beings observed their movements through the haze, sharks coming for the taste of warm, fresh blood. Sparks of eldritch light announced their presence. The lesser daemons never came close. Kept at bay by the Shadowseer's runes, they swam in the fog's currents. Margorach did not engage them in combat, but he was ready. Young by the Rillietann standards, the Death Jester's urge for battle was only tempered by the experience gained from previous combat. Even with the understanding to the Warp's inhabitants, he never relaxed his guard.
Gren's legs buckled. Even before he hit the ground, something grabbed the man around the waist and dragged him into the fog. The Inquisitor's strangled cry was Margorach's only warning. Lithely twisting aside, his flip-belt rolling the action into a single continuous movement, the Death Jester avoided the sweeping claws. Margorach flipped backwards, shuriken cannon aimed even before his feet touched the ground. A single shot spat from the barrel. Scoring a direct hit, the mutated claws were eaten by the virulent acid.
Something screamed. Chasing the noise to its source, the Harlequin barely discerned Gren's outline in the congealing mist. The Inquisitor's hellgun lay uselessly on the ground. Desperately attacking the Warp spawn with a combat knife, Gren was unable to score a mark on its armour-like skin. His afterimage a blur of crystal shards, the Death Jester hurtled forward. His scythe descended; grotesque energies were released as the blade cleaved the spawn's limb. Gren dropped the short distance to the ground, scrabbling for his hellgun. Swinging the barrel up against the fiend, Gren saw the Death Jester finish the beast. A round cracked through the hard carapace of the twisted being. Bulging growths not related to its daemonic physiology rippled under the spawn's shell.
In a welter of black blood and visceral ooze, the monstrosity exploded. What remained of it vanished into the fog. The sound of slavering maws and bones being crunched were heard. Clutching his weapon in shaking hands, Gren fought to control his heart rate as sweat sheened his face. The Shadowseer's runes hadn't protected him against the attack. The realisation struck him silent.
"Keep close," the Death Jester ordered before moving on.
Attempting to understand the short-lived battle was futile. Gren stopped when thoughts of mortality began to circle round themselves. Finding comfort in logic and strategy, the Xenos Inquisitor thought how to send a message off-world. He needed an astropathic chancery. Precious time would be lost searching for one in Pytren Hive without a detailed map. His greatest chance, and greatest danger, was finding the governor's chancery in the palace. If there was any chance of finding a working communications array the palace was the best option. Protected by hexagrammic wards capable of repelling such daemonic manifestations, the subsector governor's astropath could still be alive and sane.
Margorach watched the human walk. Barely maintaining his self-control, Gren sought a way to remain in charge. Loping behind him the Eldar asked, "Do you have a specific destination in mind?"
"I need to find the astropathic chancery. After that is done, then we can search the rest of the palace level by level for the relic." Coming to the colossal bridge, Gren did not hesitate. He strode along it with confidence in his fragile plan.
"The Vaenosis," Margorach said. "Call it by its rightful name. And let us be swift, my troupe brethren will need us soon. They cannot hope to hold the barricade for long. I do not want to linger on this damned world longer than needed."
"Do you believe this world is beyond saving, Margorach? That the humans here, their very souls, are not worth fighting for? You saw worth in saving my life." Gren spoke to keep the oppressing silence at bay. Frivolous banter was better than the unnerving absence of sound.
"Fate is arduous, Gren. We must face what we run from at some point in our lives." The vertical cables of the bridge creaked ominously in the leaden wind. Margorach tensed, sensing the wraiths accumulating in numbers.
"What are you running from?"
A heavy sigh issued from the Death Jester. "You ask too many questions and at the most inopportune times."
"That's what my employ calls me to do." Gren tried to smile. "I thought those among the Harlequin gave up their Craftworld for greater freedom."
Margorach gave an undignified snort. "You still have much to learn. Each has their reasons for coming to the Rillietann. I escaped my blood kin."
A rodent-like thing scurried whip-quick over Gren's foot. He jumped back with his hellgun raised, finding nothing in the mist. "What caused the family divide?" he asked shakily.
Not for the first time, Margorach questioned why he had freed Gren from the Dark City. He fixed Gren with the red lenses of his skull mask. "I left behind heart-sworn when I should have stayed, least of all the newborn."
"You left your wife and a child? I thought the Eldar held some pride." The Inquisitor muttered the last under his breath. The Harlequin still heard it.
Margorach halted. Rounding on Gren in a shattering burst of crystal shards, the Eldar raised a fist in controlled anger. "I made a devil's pact to my blood kin, mon-keigh, to protect the only things I ever cared for! But what does a human know? You cannot grasp the emotions an Eldar feels. What might be an old memory to you still burns bright in my mind when I recall it, and the wound felt as keenly when it was first cut!"
"I can understand making a contract with a devil all too well, Margorach. It's you who assumes humans to be the same."
"I doubt the sincerity of your words, Gren," said Margorach.
"Your wife-"
"Sinead. She had a name. You humans are keen on names, giving one to everything you encounter. Remember hers."
Gren raised his hands to mitigate Margorach's anger. "Sinead. Do you know where she is now or what happened to your child?"
The Death Jester's stance changed. Instead of striking the Inquisitor, Margorach stalked away, forcing Gren to hurry or be left behind. Crossing the great suspension bridge in tense silence, the fog roiling about them, the duo reached the palace doors. Gren looked above where the ornamental carved lintel described Saint Gilles on his feast day, casting daemons into everlasting fire as the pious looked on. He breathed a prayer to the saint, knowing it was more from habit than true faith.
It seemed to Gren that the saint's marble eyes mocked them as they entered into the palace's halls. Saint Gilles' powers would not reach them within the governor's abode.
023.M42
Hyeinsa, Syntychia subsector, Syntyche sector
"Who can stand?" he asked the question to the Tarot. "When the whirlwind of fury comes from the Throne of the God-Emperor, who can stand? When Chaos claps its broad wings over the battlefield, and sails rejoicing in the flood of death, who can stand? When souls are torn to everlasting fire, and fiends rejoice upon the slain," Saeger bowed his head over the simple altar. "Who can stand? Who has caused this? Who can answer at the throne of the God-Emperor?"
Gilt edged holographic wafers seemingly mocked him. Under lambent candlelight, they refused to illuminate the questions posed to them. On the cloth before Saeger was the first card, the Magus. Beside it and intrinsically linked to the first, the Xenos. While the card was drawn inversed, its image shifted between a Craftworld to a checker-caped figure astride a broken statue. Its dubious ruling vexed him. The final card, having slid from the Lord Inquisitor's hands while the deck had been shuffled, settled over the previous two. Letting it remain where it fell, Saeger interpreted it as the final element in his reading. The sigil of the Ordo Xenos.
Saeger took solace in his chapel house within the Hyeinsa Inquisitor Palace. Wearing a simple red habit trimmed in black, the man was just as imposing out of his armour. He had come from the baptisterium purified for the task of invoking the Emperor's will through the Tarot. White hair slick from sacred oils and flesh rubbed in blessed unguents, Saeger focused his mind. Concentration to understanding the manifested will of the Lord of Mankind took time. Braziers washed the room in warm light while incense smoke coiled up to the mosaic ceiling. Childish laughter broke Saeger's meditative reflection and he turned to the source. Confined to the sunken basin of black granite, warded manacles chaining slender wrists, Selina looked at her lord and master with corpse eyes.
"Ask Tasha and you will know." She smiled lewdly, the seer joined to a blasphemous power in the circle. "Just raise the question and you will be given your answer. Answers are given to the strong of heart and the ever faithful."
"Watch your tongue, insipid witch." Saeger stood at the edge of the consecrated pit. "When will Ahriman strike next? You will supply the answers I need."
"Not when, Saeger," her giggle of innocence changed to a guttural growl. Selina, what small part of her remained, hid when Tasha spoke. "Where. Amend your questions to have the answers you seek, Saeger, for the future changes. Tasha knows this, oh and how Chaos knows this to and changes its schemes to fit."
Growling in frustration, the Lord Inquisitor slammed a fist into the cool marble floor. He felt the skin across his knuckles tear open, hot blood dripping on the smooth stone. "Where will the arch-heretic Ahriman appear next? By what means will he assail the Syntyche sector? The Imperium?"
The temperature plummeted in the chapel. Selina stared beyond Saeger. A force wrenched the girl to her feet as her head snapped back. Flesh smoked against the warded manacles as she slowly began to rise. "Gods masked in mortal flesh dance. Their assemblage bequeathed the Vaenosis to one, only ever one!" Blood dribbled from Selina's nose as her voice shrilled on. "The sorcerer seeks it; you search for it; the dancing troupe hunts!"
"Continue!" Saeger leaned closer, close enough to risk breaking the warding circle. Selina's shackles stopped her ascent as the witching sight overpowered her. Her black hair whipped snake-like in an unseen and unfelt wind.
"Vespor! The paths align at the decomposing center! Leave it to the aether, we beg you not to seek this!"
Tasha fled. Dropping with a crack to the frost-covered floor the child lay unconscious. Blood pooled from her nose while smoke rose from burnt flesh at her wrists. Blood, sweat, incense, the candle wax – the smells overlapped to create a pungent odour that reminded Saeger of the Black Ship holds. Rising from his crouch, the edge of his habit laced in ice, Saeger returned to his altar.
The Vaenosis. Saeger hadn't heard that word in over twenty years since the Imperial colony 1034. As hoarfrost trickled into meltwater and the braziers banished the Warp's chill, Saeger cast a look at the Tarot cards. The Magus's image rippled. On its surface was now an all too familiar figure clad in ancient ceramite battle plate. He could sense the taint from it. Selina's words spun around the Hereticus Inquisitor's head, making his heart ill at the power they contained. A resounding knock on the chapel door broke the stillness.
"Enter," Saeger commanded.
Confessor Dimitri scurried in, carefully closing the door. Red-faced and breathless, the zealot approached his lord. He proffered a data-slate in sweaty hands. "A message from Inquisitor Gren, my lord. Your astropath died receiving this."
His face a study in indifference, Dimitri stared at Selina's abused and fragile body. She was beginning to stir. In her presence the Confessor worried his mind was being read or the purity of his soul slowly tainted. Reciting a psalm of defence, he made the aquila and the seal of the Imperial saints.
Saeger forgot the presence of the others in the room. Only the data-slate held his attention. The highest encryption locked the message, and only after the machine spirit sampled Saeger's blood and confirmed the gene-code was the communication disclosed. Saeger's surprise was perceptible in every weathered groove on his face.
"The God-Emperor moves His servants to their holy duties. The troubling rumours of Vespor are confirmed," the Lord Inquisitor stated. Turning to where the Divine Tarot lay spread, Saeger kissed the cards reverently. "Inquisitor Gren's work has begun. His actions need support on the hive world."
"That hive world?" Dimitri scowled. He thought back to Vespor's darker days, when the bloated nobility had overreached itself, assuming too much too fast. The quiet edicts issued by Lord Saeger after his meteoric rise culled the more independent thinking nobles, but new rot crept in without careful weeding. Vespor's nobles might yet have mutiny in their hearts. If there was ever a den waiting to descent into the grip of the heretic and traitor, Vespor took that position. Dimitri feared the rash of minor heresies from Vespor reported to him was linked to Saeger's words.
"The decay is setting in," Selina murmured. Wiping her bloodied eyes, she chuckled. "Creeping ever on. Oh yes, curiosity doesn't spare a moment for the thirster of knowledge. He will go to Vespor and with him the mother goes as well. Tasha is so happy, mother!"
Dimitri glanced from the prophetess to Saeger. "Your orders, Lord Saeger. I can gather a loyal contingent of Frateris Militia to aid Inquisitor Gren at a moment's notice."
"Vespor," Saeger breathed the word as though its utterance was poison. "We prepare for Vespor. But quietly, Dimitri, quietly. There is no need for the nobles to know of what is coming. Or to send what darkness is there to hide."
"I will make the preparations, my lord. Will your take your flagship?"
"Not for this," said Saeger. "The Salva Nos will be more than adequate. Have the crew ready to be underway immediately. Only through our speed and decisiveness will this battle be won. The God-Emperor protects, Confessor Dimitri."
Having Selina returned to her cell, the Inquisitor Lord retreated to the security of his offices. Raising falsehoods and safeguards, Saeger removed a slender black case from a surreptitious partition in his desk. Opening it, he keyed in a coded message on the datapad. Created by the Adeptus Mechanicus at great cost, the small device sent out a pulse of information to its twin-linked box. Distance did not matter. As the Lord Inquisitor had been told, this technology predated Old Night. While its components could not easily be replicated, mankind assuredly created it. Now that encryption flew through space to one of Saeger's Throne agents. There were so few to be trusted in these dark times. Seeded in Vespor's sophist nobility, the agent would provide the means for Gren to complete his operation.
Once again Saeger read Gren's message. He looked for hidden meaning between the words, a hint of a ruse or the air of deception. There was no doubt in Gren's affirmation that Vespor's events were directly linked to the Imperial colony 1034. Saeger knew where the doomed colony was involved the machinations of Chaos would reveal themselves. Touching the golden aquila pinned at his throat, the man grinned. It was almost feral in anticipation. Nothing was left to chance. The God-Emperor held a plan for everyone in His great works.
Another black case was removed, another coded message sent. Having left his tutelage a year ago, Amara Kith's travels across the Syntyche sector hadn't gone unnoticed. Inquisitor Lord Saeger kept all his former students on tight leashes. Their dealings were always noted, each move whispered in his ear. He knew as Gren was collared by very specific promises, Amara Kith's chain was even shorter. She could not refuse the order being sent to her.
It was time to let Amara Kith hunt the Dark Mother and Ahriman.
023.M42
Khermuti
Across the churning waves and eddies of the Great Ocean the light seared. Warp denizens scattered before the overwhelming glow. They returned as their voracious hunger grew. Slicing through the thin membrane separating both realms, the amorphous beings slipping into the Materium as smoke; taking physical form they hunted through Pytren Hive. Time-locked mortals died under slavering jaws, silent screams echoing in frantic minds. Those psychically gifted felt the relic's unleashed power like a thunder hammer against exposed flesh. Guarded minds were spared. Many more were scathed by the relic's force. Unprepared psyches died in agony. Others said that was the kinder death against surviving the horrors crawling across Vespor.
Ahriman, sequestered in his reclusium, received a bloody nose from the psychic shockwave. The unsuspecting blow sent him staggering against the wall. His body rippled with psionic fire, the pain nearly crushing in its intensity. Wiping away the blood as his enhanced body healed, Ahriman drew himself upright. A spot of blood fell on to a parchment on his desk, the crimson red at odds with the white vellum. Intense pressure built at the front of his skull. He was fortunate to have a headache. Lesser mages would have collapsed from the unknown force.
A loud noise drew his attention. Housed on a plinth placed in an alcove, the Seer Stone shook in agitation. Its crystal surface roiled with faint traces of colour; it whispered to the grand sorcerer. Commanded to hunt for one specific psychic pattern, the Seer Stone had made contact. Latching on to the presence with the ferocity of a gene-tracking canine, it quivered, ready to hunt down its quarry. The servos in his armour purring, Ahriman held the miniature Seer Stone.
The Warp tremors mirrored the Kianemure artefact emanations. Within the guarded depths of the Khermuti, its twin called out. It beat like a heart, and just beyond the heavy drumming beat, a voice at the threshold of sound could be heard.
As he paced the reclusium holding the Seer Stone, Ahriman reflected. Begun on Inno, the profound campaign he embarked on made Ahriman laugh at the acts of others. Those ruled by superstition would say Tzeentch was guiding him. Ahriman knew that chance, luck, and the gods' whims were little before his resolve. With these thoughts he called for his adepts to meet at the strategium. Standing before his inner cabal, Ahriman spoke of his plan. Vespor would be assaulted. A small force descending on Pytren Hive would seek the next part of the Kianemure relic.
"Vespor is our target but not the goal," Ahriman said. "Moving too close to the plant is foolish. It would endanger the Khermuti. A Warp vortex will be created for us to move freely. The assault will be swift with no space for miscalculations."
"The Great Ocean around Vespor is dangerous," cautioned Ibhar. "Distortions may disrupt the gateway's formation. What if we are marooned on Vespor? How will we depart?"
"Do you have such little confidence, Ibhar? You hear the call. It beckons us to complete this great work. You swore to follow after Arcadia, believing I knew best." Ahriman pointed at him. "Now, just as then, I know the galaxy's harsh truth. Do not doubt my actions, just as you do not question the power the Kianemure relic holds."
"I have no reservations, great one." Spreading his hands, palms outward, Ibhar took an entreating posture. "I only point out what might be a flaw."
"I have every assurance the Warp vortex will work. I deign you to cast the spell as you are unequalled in this particular skill." Ahriman's voice set the other Sons on edge. "Noph, send for the Dark Mother. To the rest, prepare the vortex."
The exiled Thousand Sons gathered at the Khermuti's prow. Crafted from herkimate crystal, the summoning hall would serve as the vortex's container. Eight intricately designed concave arches swept upward, reaching to form the chamber's apex. Through the design the Empyrean's raw energy was channelled through the immense amphitheatre. Sweeping tiers of milky white crystal rose back from the room's center. Chained to the translucent rock were slaves whose souls would serve as the spell's foci. Silent adepts consecrated tiers in gold-flecked blood. Lesser sorcerers inscribed astronomical signs based on the Khermuti's location in the Syntyche sector.
The sudden anger washing over the hall set every being on edge. Thundering into the chamber with his choler raised, Osis Pathoth strode toward Ahriman. Serfs hurried away lest they were caught underfoot. Gazes were averted. The grand sorcerer hadn't registered the viceroy's presence, shielded until his dramatic entrance. Unbalanced, Ahriman turned to face Pathoth as he stalked down the crystal steps. The vizier levelled his staff at the marine.
"How was this furore created in the Great Ocean? It reeks of your meddling, Ahriman. One of my sorcerers went mad; another became host to a daemon. What treachery against Magnus are you devising now?"
The challenge was unmistakable. Two certainties were presented: Osis Pathoth and Ahzek Ahriman would fight, bringing down the summoning hall and the ruin of every being within. Metal would buckle as great powers, brought to the fore, would set the air blazing with fire. Death was a certainty, true damnation a likelihood. Or the quarrel could be stemmed, bad blood festering until another point in time. Parts of the Khermuti were designated neutral territory; the Thousand Sons believed settling disputes without violence was what civilized beings did. Athenaeums and other repositories of knowledge were not to be attacked or the people inside. Not all abided by this noble principle, and even less sought to uphold the righteous ideal. The summoning chamber was a safe ground threatened.
Hostility strung the air until Ahriman spoke. "There is no treachery in my intentions, Pathoth, only the amassing of knowledge. You must feel the psychic pull of Vespor as clearly as anyone with an iota of talent. Calm your emotions, vizier."
"What is the nature of this disturbance?" Spitting each word, Pathoth's composure was growing thin. Ahriman hadn't seen him act in this manner since the days before the Rubric's casting.
"Alike to the Kianemure relic," said Ahriman, maddeningly calm. Pathoth narrowed hawkish eyes. He looked from Ibhar on the chamber's central platform to the slaves chained along the tiers.
"Is it worthwhile to prepare something as unstable as a Warp vortex to claim it?" the vizier hissed. His gaze slid to the Seer Stone in Ahriman's hand. "You hunt it like a craven dog."
"The Warp vortex is crafted by my most gifted student." Ahriman tightened his grip on his black staff. "I would not be foolish to let idiots handle such precise work."
"That stability becomes threatened on both ends with the Warp's tumult. I am certain even the talentless boors you exploit have enough intellect to caution you. Did he?" Pathoth pointed at Ibhar, deep in concentration.
"Do not be fearful of a minor Warp storm, Pathoth. Those who seek knowledge are afraid of no laws, no petty machinations. Fear halts the minds of those seeking to be great no matter their age or experience." Ahriman heard suppressed chuckling from his cohorts.
Pathoth drew himself to his full height. "What does this have to do with the relic from Kianemure? You have found another part, haven't you?"
"I offered you a chance to understand and you turned it aside. I do not give opportunities to the arrogant again."
"Magnus will hear of your actions. How you withheld information from his advisor to the danger you have placed everyone in, all for your selfish inclinations."
Drowning out Pathoth's words and superseding the building enmity, the distinct psionic pattern of Neferuaat dominated the hall. She entered the great chamber with violet robes fluttering, psycurium veil covering her head, and a quick stride. Silver runes decorated the hem of her robe and sleeves, catching inchoate light as she descended the tiers. Trailing her were four meek-eyed passive children. Psychically linked to each, the Dark Mother controlled their movements as if they were her own. Behind the sorceress came Noph. His chagrin was apparent in the telepathic message to Ahriman.
+I did not know the vizier was coming, my Lord Ahriman. I did not suspect.+
Neferuaat looked over her shoulder. Her mutated eyes showed amusement, pale lips twisting in an ugly smirk at his idiocy. His translucent thoughts were too obvious. Drawing up to Ahriman and Pathoth, dwarfed by their height but not their power, she bowed to her coven master.
"What is your bidding, Lord Ahriman?" She artfully overlooked the sorcerer's distaste when he saw the children.
"Neferuaat will accompany me to Vespor with my retinue." Ahriman turned back to Pathoth. "The Dark Mother belongs to my cabal and will follow exact orders."
"Is it safe?" Neferuaat voiced.
Ahriman disregarded her question. "Pathoth, you will stay on the Khermuti, but Kapharon commands both vessels in my absence. You shall refrain from issuing orders if it suits your ego."
"Neferuaat is mortal. She would not survive Vespor's dangers." Pathoth looked at his ward. Too young, he reasoned, she was far too young for something so dangerous.
"Do not obstruct her growth or doubt her abilities. Neferuaat is capable of her own protection on Vespor. If you think I would risk my most valuable apprentice, you take me too lightly, Pathoth."
Neferuaat watched the barely civilized argument as a growing dread crept over her. To look at Osis Pathoth would be invoking his unrest. Fearing chastisement, the woman looked away from her guardian to the summoning hall. This was not the first time she had made planetfall by eldritch means, but the risk this time was greater. She carried no weapons when she had Rubricae to guard her. If they failed, Neferuaat could create her own defences and call forth powers to attack her enemies. Even with these thoughts, she was not eager to go to Vespor. She absently rested a hand on the smallest child's head, stroking his black hair.
Ibhar closed himself from the noise. Aligning his psyche to the resonance of the herkimate crystals, Ibhar poured his essence into the hall. Snatching the serfs souls, tethering them to his work, Ibhar opened the gateway to Vespor. He concentrated on the pulse from the hive world, twining its astral threads into the summoning chamber. Anchoring the gateway, each word of a power a stake driven into the herkimate, the spell held fast. The gateway appeared as a thin sliver of white light. Seeping across the chamber, dousing the crystals in light, its radiance spread over the assemblage, ready for the travellers.
A squad of Rubricae, Noph, and two mages accompanied the arch-heretic. With a nod the Sorcerer of the Cyclops waited for Neferuaat, magnanimous by allowing her to bring the thrall children. Twisting the hem of her veil in corpse hands, Neferuaat's already pale face blanched further. She turned to Pathoth.
+Father, do not make me go. Find a way for me to stay.+
+I cannot.+
Neferuaat regarded Ibhar. Should she wish it, the woman could end him with a thought. Then what of the uncontrolled gateway? Unbound daemons would infest the Khermuti and kill everyone. One of the children, feeling the Dark Mother's indecisiveness, whimpered pathetically. He clung to her robes while his older brother shushed him. Crowding closer to the Dark Mother, the youths eyes were tinged with anxiety.
"Promise the children's safety and mine on Vespor, great viceroy." Neferuaat placed her veined hand over Pathoth's right gauntlet.
"Great liars make promises to those naive to the scheming of the gods." Pathoth felt her uncertainty as water running across his skin.
"Tell me a lie I'll believe."
This time he shook his head. "One far better than I is blessed with a silver tongue. Loathed as I am to admit it, with Ahriman you will come to no known harm. Go in faith that Tzeentch plans something mighty for you, daughter."
She left, uncertain and filled with disquiet. Pathoth watched Ahriman's armed coterie step into the Warp vortex, their outlines wavering in the unholy light. As their physical forms vanished to Vespor, their psionic imprint faded over the distance. Concentrating intently, Pathoth could still sense Neferuaat, through the psychic link was fragile. The vizier looked to Ibhar. Rubricae Terminators surrounded the Thousand Son, shielding him against any threat. It disquieted Pathoth to realise others knew more about Ahriman's schemes than he.
Searching for answers with Ahriman's absence would be difficult, yet not impossible. Pathoth chuckled darkly, certain the odds were unfavourable. He greeted the challenge with merriment. He would uncover the plot, warn Magnus of the errant sorcerer's ambitions, and thereby eradicate Ahriman from the Legion and the galaxy. Now all Pathoth had to do was place the regicide pieces on the board.
Secluding himself in one of the small knowledge halls of the Khermuti, the vizier meditated. He cast his thoughts into the aether, looking for one particular psychic resonance as old as the Heresy and erratic as a shoal of fish. It was time to for the Vizier of the Magus to summon his pawn into play.
023.M42
Iridescent Blade
Vespor, Huldah subsector, Syntyche sector
The Iridescent Blade lurched in the Warp storm's growing waves. No one thought much of the emergent storm at first. Many, even the Navigator, surmised it would pass without incident. As Vespor's surface disappeared under a soupy haze of black clouds, lightning storms charging its atmosphere, concern rose. When communication cut off in an abrupt wash of static, the unease morphed into distress. Even the most talented adepts were unable to raise any communications networks on Vespor.
Amara Kith ordered the astropaths to contact Pytren Hive. They spoke of muted sounds, nightmarish visions and behemoths striding across the world. Contact could not be made with Pytren's Choirs or the subsector governor's astropath, but outgoing messages could still be received. Fragmented pleas came through clearly. Broken words, hoarse screams, and white noise followed by frantic muttering composed most. Symbolic-relayed images caught in time loops undid the messengers' resolve. One astropath, shown more than he wished, went mad. A single lasbolt ended his hysteria to keep it from spreading to the rest of the ship's Choir.
In her stateroom the Malleus Inquisitor looked at the kaleidoscopic wash of colour. The void shields were raised – a prudent action – as the storm crashed against the Iridescent Blade. Amara was certain the Warp storm's power was growing. She watched the swirling ochre and magenta turn into sobbing faces, eyes begging for rescue. Caught up in miniature cyclones, the lost souls were pulled back into the vicious currents. Amara recalled Inno's golden fields, where two children's lives had been destroyed as a Warp storm raged in the heavens. Amara wondered if it came to it, could she destroy a planet twenty billion souls claimed as home?
She held a black case in tightly clutched fingers. Its simple message brought Amara conviction that all her past actions would be justified. The Sorcerer of the Red Cyclops and the Dark Mother were on Vespor. Would Katea be with those two heretics? If Amara saw her, would she even be able to recognize her cousin after so long? While others pondered the hive world's descent into madness, Kith was burdened by the truth.
She was Malleus. To fight Chaos wherever it appeared was her sacred duty. She knew that Chaos wrecked havoc on the surface. She knew the servants of the god of magic were assembling. Still, Kith held the distinct impression in her mind of a pursuit down twisting, constricting corridors, chasing shadows better left to the dark.
Silencing lingering doubts, Amara Kith geared herself for battle. Changing into black flexible duty armour, the woman buckled her sword to her side, placed her bolt pistol in its holster. Lastly she took an antiquated gravity arrestor, crafted as a grinning skull, from a lockbox. The woman contemplated the gravity arrestor's usefulness as she clipped it to her sword belt. Being prepared was better than going in blind.
"Send an announcement to my warband," the Inquisitor ordered her servo-skull. "Tell them to meet on the embarkation deck in an hour and be fully geared. Give a specific message to the pilot to keep her mouth shut."
Amara Kith marched to the Iridescent Blade's medicae facility. Deck hands, adepts and officers saluted her when she passed. Flying behind her the servo-skull received verification from Kith's cadre. The doors of the medicae center opened with a pneumatic hiss. Yannis glanced up from his scribbled notes when the armoured Inquisitor entered.
"Hello, Yannis," said Kith. Spread out on the apothecary's table were data-slates, grimoires, and recording devices, his banned research from Krenzar continued. Behind the old man lay genetic sequence machines that whirred quietly. Yannis tapped a pen against one of the data-slates while noting the Inquisitor's weapons.
"The, ah, half-breed has not come for her physical check. Please order her to do so. I wouldn't want to force her to the medicae ward under sedatives."
"When the mission on Vespor is concluded," replied Kith absently. She looked around the chamber with an almost curious air. "I see you've kept busy here. Your new employment's better than Krenzar ever was, I gather."
"Only because you allow the budget for it," the old man chuckled. He heaved himself out of his comfortable chair before asking, "What do you need, Inquisitor Kith?"
"I need a few vials."
"How many?" his voice echoed in the weighty silence.
"Twenty," she answered. "I don't know what conditions will be like on Vespor."
She did not say anymore. Yannis understood. Leaving his work the physician shuffled to a stainless steel cabinet set in the far end of the sterile white room. Inputting a code along with his biometric readings into a keypad, the compartment door slid away. Inside were rows of glass vials filled with Kith's rejuvenate. The blue liquid sloshed as Yannis removed one tray. Privy to secrets when people were most vulnerable, Yannis had cultivated an intricate understanding of body language and knew when someone was lying. Placing the tray on the table, he selected the vials.
"You should not be impulsive." Laying each vial out carefully, Yannis wrapped them in a leather pouch. "I know rashness when I see it."
Green eyes narrowed. "You presume too much, physician. Would you tell this Inquisitor what to do?"
"From this bumbling old soul's perspective, only if you haven't thought everything through." Trembling old hands held the pouch out to Kith. "As you are an Inquisitor it means you have a plan. Am I right in my assumption?"
Yannis received a twisted smile. Kith's eyes misted for a moment; settling on an apathetic stance to mask her feelings, all she said was, "Pray for me."
Adding the pouch to her autoinjector kit, she left. Yannis uneasily settled back into his chair, disturbed by the smile and words. He closed his eyes and rubbed his liver-spotted temples. Clasping his hands together, the old man bowed his head over his studies. In a weak voice he began praying for the Inquisitor and her trials undeniably ahead.
While one soul prayed for the Inquisitor's safety, another prayed for righteous fury. An armoured hand slapped a clip into a well-oiled boltgun. Divested of her flamer, Sister Ursula cared with tender dedication to her Godwyn-De'az Pattern boltgun. She counted off the bolt rounds within each sickle-shaped clip, sanctifying each. With a fine-edged whet stone, she sharpened the Sarissa-blade that would be attached to the end of her boltgun. She did all of this while sitting on the embarkation deck, musing over the justice in the heretic's death.
How pure the God-Emperor's vision was. Sweeter than nectar and burning hotter than the heart of a star, the faith sustaining Ursula allowed her to rise above the disgust she felt whenever she saw the filthy pilot. It was not easy – a trial for the woman to suffer – but Ursula knew her willpower was great. Narrowing her eyes, Ursula sharpened the Sarissa-blade while glaring at Kel. The pilot made a point to not look in the direction of the Adepta Sororita while she talked with Dram. The former Guardsman, outfitted in olive green carapace armour and armed with a hellpistol, laughed at something the half-breed said.
"From the blasphemy of the fallen, our Emperor, deliver us. From the curse of the mutant, our Emperor, deliver us. From the taint of the xenos, our Emperor, deliver us." Calmed by the battle prayer, she clipped on the Sarissa-blade.
Ursula was perhaps one of the few keeping her serenity as drama unfolded across the ship. With the Warp storm's threat, the tech-adepts moved in a flurry across the Dauntless-class ship responding to problems. In the Iridescent Blade's embarkation deck they were particularly annoying. Clanking gears and the grinding of mechanical lifters created a thunderous clamour, a dozen or more red-robed Mechanicus trained personnel would swarm a particular craft. Ursula saw the half-breed waved away the misguided assistance of the Tech-Priests when they came toward the Inquisitor's Stormbird. As though the disrespectable being claimed it as hers, perish the thought!
Inquisitor Kith's arrival came without fanfare. The warband could see her striding across the plated deck. Sister Ursula clipped the Sarissa-blade to her boltgun with a sense of finality. Ursula worried a critical part was lacking in each of the warband, a spiritual lapse the Inquisitor saw but did not voice. Amara Kith nodded to her handpicked agents. Inspiring words did not come. Nothing from the Imperial Creed reflected what she felt. Instead she spoke directly to her team.
"We leave for Vespor immediately. The planet's very future could very well be in our hands. What we will do down there will decide the lives of billions of souls."
"Shouldn't there be more of us?" Dram looked skeptical. "No disrespect meant, Inquisitor Kith, but with four people going down to that hellhole, it equals a suicide mission."
Amara Kith fixed him with a piercing glare. "We move quickly. That's why there are so few of us. Who wants to look for people if we become lost in the city?"
Forgetting rank Dram levelled a finger at the Inquisitor. "How many engagements have you been in?"
Ursula scowled at him. "How dare you speak to Milady Kith in this manner? What she says is an order and we will follow what the sanctified Inquisition sets before us."
"And end up dead because of it," replied Dram. "The former commander of the Dreadhaven 17th Company went down that same road because he didn't have any real plan."
"I don't have to explain my reasoning, Dram. You were sworn into my service. Now you must trust my judgement. We will depart for Vespor," Amara Kith repeated. "We'll take my Stormbird with Kelvenia flying."
"I am not riding in a craft piloted by a mixed blood, Milady Kith!"
A virtuous fury rushed through Ursula. She could accept being sent to a world overrun by heretics. Was not her purpose to cleanse the worlds of the God-Emperor of the unfaithful? She gladly bowed before the decision to participate on such a suicidal mission. But to take a craft piloted by a disgusting half-breed whose genetic legacy, let alone her values, was questionable was too much for the Sister of Battle to bear.
"This weather doesn't constitute a safe travel from high dock to a planet filled with who knows what, Inquisitor," Kel ran a hand through dark hair. "I don't know how to fly in this type of void weather! You expect me to work a miracle from insanity. I haven't even gotten use to the Stormbird controls yet."
"Be silent," the Inquisitor spoke harshly. She would not endure her orders being debated. "You will fly the Stormbird. You will land it at the governor's palace. You will not run from your duty unless you want a bolt through your brain. Are we clear?"
The threat motivated Kel to begin the pre-flight checks, cold sweat trickling down her spine. Amara Kith looked icily at Ursula. The battle maiden held her tongue when she climbed into the craft. The only others present in the Stormbird were the lobotomized servitors manning the gun turrets. Besides Kel speaking over the communication channel there was silence. Dram sat in the co-pilot throne, watching Kel guide the dropship after flight clearance. He absently switched his view from the combat knife held in his hands to Kel. She refused to look at Dram, let alone Ursula or the Inquisitor occupying the two passenger seats.
Accelerating away from the Iridescent Blade, the Stormbird shuddered in the storm's gales. A cohesive warband would have sung a psalm, done something to raise spirits. Kith's group was dour. Each was left alone with their thoughts. Each confronted their inner turmoil and dealt with it. Clasping her rosette in white gloved hands, Amara Kith contemplated divine providence as the party raced headlong toward Vespor and Pytren Hive.