Architect Of Fate Part 8

Pylcrafte flinches at the sergeant's words. The crash has left him badly shaken. His floor-length robes are torn, and as he looks back at the Librarian his head twitches with fear.

Comus nods in reply and unclasps a book from his power armour. It is small, leather-bound, sealed with gold clasps and foiled with symbols that are far too bizarre to be of human design. It could be mistaken for a harmless piece of arcana, but Halser knows the truth. He knows what he is asking of his old friend.

Comus unlocks the clasps and flips open the cover, frowning with concentration as he handles the tiny book. There are no pages inside, just a hinged, steel case covered with dials, runes and a gla.s.s screen. The Librarian inserts a cable into a socket on the side of the device, closes his eyes and winces in pain. Then he begins to mouth words that are lost to the wind.

As he watches Comus praying, Pylcrafte's terrified expression becomes a sneer of disgust. *How can you allow him to handle such a talisman?' he asks, looking up at the sergeant.

Halser gives no answer, but he knows the question is a fair one.

*According to the libellus, the Zeuxis Scriptorium was five kilometres north of this spot.' Comus's voice is taut with pain. *If I understand the xenos text correctly, the storm has not thrown us too far off target.'

*Five kilometres away?' cries Pylcrafte, looking afraid again. *Then we must move fast. We've already spent too long above ground. I told you a the only safe way to cross this planet is underground. We must find a tunnel before we do anything else.'

Halser nods. *Once we've located Brother Silvius's s.h.i.+p.'

Pylcrafte reels as though slapped. His voice shrieks even higher. *Your battle-brothers could be scattered across the continent. They could all be dead. You've heard no word from them.' He jabs his cane into the dusty ground. *We need to find cover now.'

Rage is ever-present in Sergeant Halser's eyes, but for a moment it seems on the verge of boiling over into violence. His huge jaw tightens and his voice fills with disbelief. *Are you ordering me?'

A little colour creeps into Pylcrafte's pallid face. *Of course not, but you've tried to contact your men and there's no response.' He lowers his nest of eyes. *You may have to consider that they have fallen. Why would they ignore your signal?'

Halser thumps the lifeless auspex at his belt. *Since that storm spat us out, we have no signal.' He looks again at the towering clouds. *Nothing. We are alone.' He lifts his helmet and snaps it into place. When he speaks again, his voice is an inhuman growl. *But I will not abandon my men.'

Pylcrafte cringes pitifully and clutches his cane to his chest. *Of course not, Sergeant Halser. But you must understand, if we don't head below the surface now, we might encounter the enemy.'

Halser studies him through the featureless visor of his helmet. Then he raises his bolt pistol and clangs it against the battered grey ceramite of his chest armour. *I hope so, Pylcrafte, I really do.'

CHAPTER TWO.

Inquisitor Mortmain sits quietly in the cathedral, head bowed and weary, relis.h.i.+ng the solitude. Even here, deep within the bewildering network of cloisters and b.u.t.tressed towers he cannot fully escape the sounds of the s.h.i.+p: the rumble of engines, the grinding of weapons batteries and the droning hum of power circuits; but it is the closest thing the Domitus has to a haven. Vast, lancet windows watch over him, flooding the cathedral with coloured light and painting his face a lurid green. Mortmain could never be considered handsome. His features are as angular and harsh as the statues that line the nave, but there is a fierceness to his blunt, crooked nose; a sense of purpose beneath his low, heavy brow, that would mark him out in a crowded room, even without the badge of office that hangs around his neck.

As he studies the windows Mortmain finds it hard to meet his master's eye. Despite the horrors the s.h.i.+p has endured the Emperor's gaze has not faded. The stained gla.s.s was crafted on Terra, countless centuries ago, but the scale of the artist's vision is undimmed: the Emperor glares down resplendent from the backlit gla.s.s, still sure of His purpose, still blazing with unshakeable faith.

The inquisitor grimaces and steers his thoughts beyond the gla.s.s, beyond the cathedral, beyond even the rest of the Domitus. He pictures Fleet Sanctus, trailing after him through the void. The Emperor's might, turned aside from its purpose, redirected at his command. Mortmain pulls his thick leather cloak a little tighter, suddenly conscious of the cold. His shoulders slump as he considers the weight of his choices. In his left hand he grips a vellum scroll, beautifully illuminated, clasped with silver and covered with wax purity seals. It bears the mark of governors, company commanders, captains and bishops: everyone who could possibly question his decision. The Concordat of Zeuxis they named it, in recognition of Ilissus' famed scriptorium, but Mortmain is under no illusions: it is a death warrant. The fate of an entire world is in his hands. Maybe more. He draws a deep breath. Compared to such weighty matters, what concern is a friends.h.i.+p? Is he risking too much?

A polite cough interrupts his thoughts. He looks up and sees a hooded priest watching him from the far end of the nave.

*Is the Novator here?' Mortmain has not spoken for several hours and his voice is a hesitant croak, but the acoustics of the cathedral are such that his words are amplified, echoing around the vaulted ceilings and sculpted columns.

The distant figure nods. *Should I show him in, Inquisitor Mortmain?'

Mortmain clears his throat and rises to his feet, flinging back his floor-length cloak. There is a flash of silver as the light plays across his etched breastplate. The intricate designs in the metal are worked around a central device: the letter I, crossed with three bars and studded with a single, blood-red stone.

Mortmain has a black, serrated billhook tucked into his belt and as he stands he grips the hilt in his right hand, soothed by the feel of its cool, pitted ebony against his skin.

He nods, and when he speaks again the doubt has gone from his voice. *Bring him to me.'

The priest bows and shuffles back into the shadows.

After a few minutes a man approaches. He is stooped low to the floor and moving backwards in a series of strange, lurching hops. Mortmain realises that he is dusting the floor, furiously wiping the stones to save the shoes of his master.

This must be van Tol, thinks Mortmain as another man appears. The second man walks upright, with a confident stride and his shoulders thrown back. He is immaculately dressed in a starched military uniform. Every centimetre of his tall, elegant frame is braided and adorned, and there is an ornate, gilt-handled sabre at his side. As he catches sight of Mortmain, his waxed moustache quivers over a glib smirk. *Inquisitor,' he drawls. *Have I interrupted your prayers? You must forgive me.' His face is the complete ant.i.thesis of Mortmain's, with a small, receding chin, creamy, flawless complexion and features so delicate they are almost pretty.

Mortmain gives a stiff bow and steps away from the altar, filling the cathedral with noise as his iron-shod boots clang across the flagstones. *Not at all, baron. I have been looking forward to meeting you again.' As he approaches his guest, the inquisitor notices other men waiting in the shadows: the baron has brought his guards. This is no social call, he thinks, gripping the billhook a little tighter.

Baron van Tol holds out a limp, white-gloved hand. It is unclear whether he expects it to be shaken or kissed.

Mortmain grasps it firmly in his own. *Your chambers are sufficient, I hope?'

The baron continues to smirk. *Sufficient, yes.' The words merge into one another, as though he can barely find the energy to separate vowels from consonants. He is unusually tall and studies Inquisitor Mortmain down the length of a long, aquiline nose, his eyes half-lidded and full of disdain, like those of a basking lizard waiting idly to be fed. *Not a single dissenter,' he says.

Mortmain frowns, confused.

The baron nods at the scroll in Mortmain's hand. *The concordat.' There is an unmistakable note of mockery in his voice. *Your word is law, Inquisitor Mortmain. Your doubts were unfounded. There are few, even here, who would question the will of the Imperial Inquisition.'

Mortmain shrugs, ignoring the baron's sneering tone. *I claim no credit. We are all just vessels for the Emperor's will. And, besides, your evidence was persuasive. What hope do we have of containing anything with corruption left unchecked at our backs?'

*Exactly.'

The two men stand in silence for a few seconds, still clutching each other's hands. Finally, Mortmain withdraws his grip and waves to one of the pews.

*Tell me,' says the inquisitor, once they are seated, *what has brought you to the Domitus? The concordat is signed. I thought you would be eager to return home. I understand that being in such close proximity to the Eye of Terror is particularly unpleasant for someone with your talents.' At the word *talents' he gazes briefly at the baron's forehead. Van Tol is wearing a peaked cap, pulled low, and there is no sign of anything strange; beyond a vaguely translucent quality to his skin, he might be a normal man.

The baron shrugs. *I will return to Terra as soon as possible, of course, but I...' He hesitates, as though doubting the inquisitor's ability to understand. *I have complete confidence in your abilities, Inquisitor Mortmain. Let me make that clear. I have nothing but respect for men who drag themselves up from the...' a look of distaste crosses his face, *lower orders of society. I'm sure that you're a very competent individual.' He seems unwilling to meet Mortmain's gaze. *But I will not be able to rest until this situation has been resolved.'

Mortmain raises his eyebrows and leans back in the pew. *Ilissus will be destroyed, Baron van Tol.'

*Of course it will, Inquisitor Mortmain, I have no doubt of that. No doubt at all.' The baron laughs. It is a shrill, mirthless sound and his eyes remain fixed on the floor. *But it would set an old man's heart at ease to witness the deed first-hand.'

Mortmain opens his mouth to reply, but before he can speak one of the baron's attendants steps out of the shadows. He is a double of the baron, with the same feminine features and languid bearing. The only difference is a little less grey in his moustache and a few less medals on his uniform.

*Why is there no action?' demands the younger n.o.ble, his face flushed with emotion. *Every minute sees the contagion spreading. While wea'

*Silence, my dear Palchus!' The baron's voice is soft, but full of venom. *How dare you interrupt? Stand down.'

The young man's eyes glitter with rage, but he does as ordered and steps back into the darkness.

The baron turns back to Mortmain, clearly embarra.s.sed. *You must forgive my son's appalling manners. We are all very concerned about the situation.' He s.h.i.+fts awkwardly in the pew. *In his clumsy way, though, he has asked the question that is on my own mind: when exactly will the bombardment begin? Your s.h.i.+ps are in place, are they not?'

Mortmain studies the baron in silence for a few seconds, struggling to keep his expression neutral. *Ilissus will be destroyed.' He chooses his words carefully. *The n.o.bles of House van Tol have played an important part in bringing this situation to light, but the matter is now in the hands of the Inquisition.'

The baron briefly meets the inquisitor's gaze, his eyes still hooded with mirth. *Of course. I merely came to offer my a.s.sistance. You must understand...' The baron's words trail off as he notices how closely Mortmain is studying him. The smirk finally vanishes, as abruptly as a light being extinguished. *Has the defence of Ilissus definitely been abandoned?'

Mortmain stares at van Tol, unused to having his actions questioned.

*I just wondered,' continues the baron, *about the two guns.h.i.+ps that launched a few hours ago.'

Mortmain continues to stare.

The baron waits for an answer that never comes. Eventually he rises to his feet, uncomfortable under Mortmain's intense gaze. *I sense I've annoyed you Inquisitor Mortmain, and that was not my intention.' He steps back with a slight bow. The smirk returns. *I will be in my chambers if you need anything.'

Mortmain narrows his eyes, but says nothing as he watches the baron saunter down the nave, whispering to his lackeys as they vanish into the long shadows. Once their footfalls have faded, the inquisitor looks up into the benevolent gaze of the Emperor. *They're hiding something,' he mutters, keeping his eyes fixed on the gla.s.s.

A voice replies from the darkness. The words are moist and distorted, as though spoken through a bundle of wet rags. The language is impenetrable and revolting.

Mortmain nods in agreement and purses his lips. *Exterminatus can wait a little longer. I will not consign millions to their deaths without knowing every relevant fact.'

Another stream of gurgled vowels answers him.

Mortmain ma.s.sages his shaven head and slips back into silent reverie. *The young one,' he says finally, *the baron's son. I think the Novator called him Palchus. He is clearly unstable. I'm sure we could use that to our advantage. The Domitus is a large s.h.i.+p, after all. I imagine he might easily get lost.'

There is a rumble of laughter, accompanied by the sound of chains, sc.r.a.ping across stone.

Mortmain's voice is full of distaste. *Be gentle, Cerbalus. I will soon have the death of a world on my conscience. Do not add to my burden.'

CHAPTER THREE.

Even through the howling wind, the sound of bolter fire is unmistakable as Brother Thymus spins backwards through the storm, a blackened hole in his breastplate.

*Down,' snaps Sergeant Halser over the vox, and the Relictors vanish from sight.

Pylcrafte moans pitifully as he cowers between the sergeant and Brother-Librarian Comus. *We must be steadfast,' he whimpers, trembling violently. *The dominion of the idolaters isa'

Comus clamps a hand over his mouth and shoves him unceremoniously to the ground.

Their cover is a narrow gulley, no more than four metres wide.

*The next ridge,' mutters Comus.

Halser nods and looks back through the swirling dust clouds. Brother Thymus is lying on his side, convulsing. Blood and hydraulic fluid is spraying from his punctured chest armour and he seems unable to rise. He has fallen above the gulley and is completely exposed, but it is useless to think of saving him. The sound of his laboured breathing is terrible to hear. He will not survive.

The sergeant is so furious that for a few seconds he cannot speak. How could he be so foolish as to lead his men into an ambush? Brother Thymus has served at his side in countless engagements. Inside Halser's helmet, his cheeks flush purple with rage and he spits a prayer. *Everything that happens is the Emperor's will.' The words bring him no solace. He shakes his head and raises his hand, preparing to give an order.

Before he can speak, two objects clatter across the rocks.

The s.p.a.ce Marines react instantly, recognising the frag grenades before they even settle, but it is no use: the grenades are primed to detonate on impact.

The gulley fills with sound and light.

Halser lands heavily on his back behind a narrow limb of rock, his ears ringing from the blast. Great plumes of dust mingle with the storm as he strains to see the others. Bulky, grey shadows dash through the smoke but he cannot see who, if anyone, has fallen. He repeats his prayer, sounding even less convinced. *Everything that happens is the Emperor's will.'

The limb of rock explodes as a round of bolter fire slams into it. The sergeant rolls clear, dropping into another gulley and glimpsing muzzle flare above a distant crest of rock. He marks the position.

The smoke dances away in the storm and Halser spots Brother-Librarian Comus, crouching a few metres away. He looks uninjured, but he is clutching the ornate mantle that surrounds his gorget, grimacing in pain. The cables that connect the metal hood to his skull are pulsing with inner fire.

Halser catches his eye, nods to the location of the enemy and mimes a throwing movement; then he taps his bolt pistol and waves it down the gulley.

Comus nods in reply, but the grimace remains on his face and as he unclips a grenade from his belt he clutches his head with his other hand, furiously ma.s.saging his temples.

There is another deafening blast as Comus's grenade finds its mark.

At the same moment, Sergeant Halser emerges from the far end of the gulley, sprinting towards the crest of rock. As he knifes through the clouds, a black-armoured figure rises and tumbles away from him, thrown back by the grenade blast.

Halser fires as he runs, unloading several rounds into the reeling figure and drawing his chainsword. As he vaults over the lip of rock, the sergeant's blade is already rattling and spitting oil.

The enemy tries to return fire, but before he can level his pistol at Halser, the sergeant's chainsword slices through his forearm in a shower of sparks, blood and splintered bone.

As his opponent staggers back, clutching countless wounds, Halser gets a clear look at him.

The Traitor Marine is clad in ancient, black armour, twisted and sculpted into a baroque mess of curves and spikes, and trimmed with golden, razor-sharp edges. The mouth grille of his helmet has been wrenched into a b.e.s.t.i.a.l leer and his breastplate is emblazoned with a pus-yellow eye.

The sergeant howls. The sound could either be rage or ecstasy, it is impossible to tell. He raises his chainsword to strike again.

The Traitor Marine is too fast. He blocks Halser's chainsword with his own and the air fills with sparks and the sound of grinding gears.

Halser lifts his bolt pistol but, before he can fire, pain explodes in his side. He is lifted from his feet, spun around and sent cras.h.i.+ng to the ground. Before landing he glimpses a second Traitor Marine, looming out of the storm and lifting his bolter for another shot.

Halser rolls to one side as the ground explodes around him.

Then there is a screech of grinding metal and the gunfire stops.

He rises from the ground and sees the second Traitor Marine drop his bolter and clutch his chest, howling in pain. The blade of a sword has emerged from his chest armour and is slicing up towards his throat. The sword s.h.i.+mmers with unnatural light as it rips the enemy warrior in two, emitting a final, blinding pulse as it wrenches free in a fountain of blood and sparks.

Brother-Librarian Comus steps around his victim as he topples, lifeless, to the ground. His force sword is still blazing with psychic energy as he turns towards the other Traitor Marine but, before he can strike, he clutches his head in agony and stumbles, the tip of his sword clattering uselessly against the rocks.

The remaining Traitor Marine turns his gun on the Librarian but the left side of his helmet evaporates before he can pull the trigger, leaving a smouldering pulp of ruptured armour and charred brains.

He drops to the floor with a whistling gurgle.

Sergeant Halser steps over him and fires a second shot into his mouth grille. Then another. He keeps firing until the traitor's head is nothing but a b.l.o.o.d.y stain on the rock. Then he crouches low and spins around, peering down the barrel of his gun. The rattle of bolter fire echoes around the valley, but the sound is distorted and m.u.f.fled by the clouds, making it impossible to pinpoint anything.

*Squad Elicius,' he grunts into his vox-bead, *state your condition.'