III. PENITENT
Dim lights of ancient electrocandles weakly dispel the gloom, and Interrogator Xhalaro sees the heretics at last.
They are the Transformed; chiefthanes of a savage, feral cult which made this long-abandoned voidship their home. There are nine – the sacred number of their dark patron – and they are cunningly powerful whereas the interrogator is alone and equipped only with his chainsword and his faith. But it will have to do. He has come in search of a redemption and already knows he won't leave this place alive.
'Burn the witch,' he intones calmly, striding towards the semicircle of monsters. Only Xhalaro hears these words, but it matters not. His foes already sense him, and rejoice.
A sexless figure in the middle – the cult leader – turns to the intruder, flashing its eyes, indigo-blue and violet, their number constantly changing.
'Scourge the heretic.' Xhalaro's breathing echoes loudly within his helmet. The old ship where the cult had settled is long devoid of atmosphere, but these creatures have no need of it. They are blessed and cursed by the unholy boons of their "god", and the ability to dwell where an ordinary human would quickly suffocate is just one of them.
The Ordo Barbarus agent, however, draws from the source of true holiness. He is a servant of the Lord of All Mankind, and his God will grant him the strength to atone for his greatest sin by way of a righteous purge.
'Cleanse the galaxy of evil.'
Quick as a giant snake, the first of the Transformed rushes at him. Xhalaro heavily parries the strike of unnatural claws. His chainblade's teeth slice through the thing's vile flesh, arcing shimmers of vibrant, blue-green ichor into the soundless heights.
But the second and third cultists are already charging.
The first blow almost knocks the interrogator over, and only his boots' mag-locks keep him upright. Growling thickly, using all his impressive skill, Xhalaro cuts both monstrous heads off with one ferocious swing.
Forgive me, Borsum.
Shame and remorse give him energy. He recalls his predecessor, a bright urban lad whom he'd left to die in the steaming rainforests of the backwater Shrigang, now far beyond the Great Rift, just because their mentor believed Xhalaro's lies. The former huntsman from Ghaal-Betaris had abused the Lady Inquisitor's trust with the little intrigue in order to take his comrade's place, though that goal's attainment never brought him what he desired. Instead, this transgression formed a heavy burden that only a virtuous death – his own – could relieve.
I hope you live still.
Xhalaro feels his blood leaking from several wounds. Meanwhile the Transformed attack him four at once, attempting to disarm the invader and topple him onto the ice-cold metal of the deck. The essence of the warp streams from their nonhuman eyes and mouths, enveloping Xhalaro, and the runes in his helm-visor chaotically flicker as an impossible mix of writhing, silver-blue wavelets start to flash over them. His damaged vox bursts out laughing.
But if you don't... wait for me... at His Gate.
Visualising resplendent celestial halls of his Emperor-God, the bleeding interrogator forces himself to concentrate with one last effort of will.
Now he can barely stand, and though the twisted things fall one by one under his fierce blows, the eighth mutant gets close enough to slam its powerful, garishly feathered tail into Xhalaro's chestplate. The elaborate image of a golden aquila crumples, and Xhalaro is violently thrown away. He tries to breathe, yet feels only the gurgling of blood in his throat. Meanwhile, the silence around him cries.
The chiefthane's next lunge pierces his helmet, and the dying interrogator senses his facial bones shift and red blood-drops pour away into the vacuum.
'God... Emperor... accept... my... sacrifice.'
His mind grows numb, and the last thing Interrogator Xhalaro witnesses in his life is the wild kaleidoscope of the empyreans. A nimbus of multicoloured flame blossoms around the last of the Transformed as the sorcerer steps from its dais and slowly glides towards the fallen man.