Lords of Blood, page 106
‘Entirely normal, given the circumstances,’ said Tyndall.
Kovas glanced at him irritably. ‘Of greater concern is the increased emergence of psychic individuals. This planet has a small population, my lords. Forty million.’
‘According to past tithings on this world, we would expect fewer than ten psykers to emerge yearly from this number,’ said Racel. ‘Given that some individuals evade detection for several years, the annualised, natural incidence of psyker births on Dulcis is somewhere in the order of one in eight million.’
‘That is not a high number.’
‘It is average for this world,’ said Racel. ‘Or it was. That number has increased fifty-fold in the last five months. In that time alone, Adeptus Astra Telepathica witch hunters have incarcerated five hundred psychic individuals. That number is growing. There is a spike in discoveries after every warp flare.’
‘The second problem we face is a complication of the first,’ said Kovas. ‘We are overdue a visit by the Black Ships. The last witch tithe was scheduled to take place three years ago. It never arrived. We expect it never will.’
‘It is nothing we cannot handle!’ protested Tyndall. ‘In the past, when we have had a surfeit of psykers, we have simply culled them. The periods between visits of the Black Fleet are long. They cannot take them all.’
‘We are not savages. These are Imperial citizens, cursed though they are,’ said Kovas. ‘And they are a valuable resource.’
‘If we enact a cull now, we may not have sufficient to fulfil the tithe quota, should the Black Fleet arrive,’ said Racel.
Kovas sighed. ‘If they do or do not, if we cull or do not, we are left with the problem of emergence. At this rate, it cannot be long until a psyker of dangerous talent appears.’
Ares looked around the room. ‘What do you wish us to do about this? We have no Librarians with us. Our own corps of astropaths is as small as yours. We can send word to Baal and notify the Regent of the problem. Perhaps Lord Dante will send psychic personnel here from another Chapter, to help you screen the dangerous from the merely benighted. There is not much more I can achieve for you. I recommend that you cull them. I can leave a letter of recommendation to that effect that you may present to the Black Ship captains, if they ever arrive.’
‘That would be helpful. But we also have specific requests.’ Kovas took a scroll from a servant. The parchment was bound with green ribbon and sealed with the mark of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica.
Ares broke the wax and unrolled the parchment. He scanned the petition. It was written in formal High Gothic, but the content was simple enough.
He looked up.
‘You do know what happens when the Adeptus Astartes are unleashed on a world? We are a finer tool than some military organisations, but this is not the sort of work we are made for.’
‘Who else is there?’ said Kovas.
Ares reread the scroll and rolled it up. ‘Very well then. We shall accede to your requests. You are correct, we do have the equipment to help you. I will commit my men to a detailed sweep, and if you insist then we shall perform the cull.’
Tyndall sat upright. The news shook some of the drunkenness from him.
‘These are my people!’ he said, though his outrage was more fear for his position should he fail to fulfil his tithe, that was certain, for he had advocated a cull himself only minutes before.
‘They are witches,’ Kovas said. He bowed his head. ‘Politically, it would help if you were the ones to eliminate our current overpopulation of psychic individuals. We cannot support the current numbers. We will maintain a small group. Should the Black Ships arrive, we will have a sufficient tithe, and detailed records to submit that show we are doing our duty and keeping the population of psykers down.’
‘We are doing your duty,’ said Bedevoir pointedly.
‘Your help is greatly needed. Off-world forces are a much more convenient conduit for hate. Some of the incarcerated are of noble birth. You can leave, but we must rule here.’
Ares’ face hardened. How blandly these bureaucrats committed others to death, witches or not.
‘Where are they?’ asked Jadriel.
‘The cells of our Telepathicum are full. We have established a witch-pen a hundred miles north of here,’ said Racel.
‘That’s far,’ said Lamorak.
‘Solid ground is in short supply,’ said Bedevoir, repeating Jadriel’s earlier words.
‘Do you have Mechanicus personnel on-world?’
‘A few enginseers,’ said Tyndall, trying to reassert some control. ‘They are yours to do with as you please.’
‘We will need them. Tomorrow, I shall survey the pen personally. Jadriel, you will lead a sweep of the city for psykers and eliminate any that run.’
‘This is dirty work,’ said Bedevoir.
‘And yet it is the task appointed to us.’ Ares looked at Kovas. ‘We will do as you ask, but once we are done, we shall be leaving.’
CHAPTER THREE
A LITTLE PUSH
The Joyous Garde was vast. The footsteps of Lamorak and Ares rang loudly on marble floors in deserted halls. It was one of the Red Wings’ five warp-capable void-castles, part of the Pentagarde that comprised their fortress-monastery. Each had the capacity to support three companies. In better times they were staffed by multitudes of mortals, but though the fortresses had been deliberately kept back and played no part in the battle to save Baal, the human servants of the Chapter were as reduced as their masters, lost to the teeth and claws of the tyranids on the voidships of the Chapter. Now few tended the Joyous Garde, hundreds where thousands should toil.
‘This place is empty,’ said Lamorak.
‘It was not always so,’ said Ares. ‘It will not remain this way for long. As soon as more Primaris Space Marines are raised we shall hear its halls ring with song and the sounds of work. Even with the reinforcements Dante was given, our Chapter is at less than half strength. This fortress once housed my company, the Ninth, and the Third and Seventh. We are fifty. Hundreds lived here with thousands of thralls.’
‘Bedevoir complains,’ said Lamorak. ‘He complains that other Chapters have been restored already and we must wait.’
‘Which Chapters does he speak of?’ said Ares. ‘I see Chapters worse affected than we, with fewer reinforcements, and fewer assets left. Or perhaps he refers to the Flesh Tearers? I’ve met their Chapter Master. If any Chapter needs diluting with new blood, it is they. Politics plays a part in who gets what, Brother Lamorak. We will receive our due.’
‘It is not my opinion.’
‘Then why tell it to me? I know what Bedevoir is like. Or does our brother mean the likes of the Golden Sons, who are only one of the Chapters virtually destroyed defending Baal, and whose order is now the same in name alone. We were blessed. Our numbers are diminished and our fleet no more, but none of our void forts were at Baal. I thought Master Pellinagror was ruthless not deploying them, but he was right.’
‘We are paying the price for our lack of commitment,’ said Lamorak. His words rang a little false; he, like Bedevoir, still did not see himself as one of the Red Wings.
‘We bled as much as any other in defence of the Blood Angels. Pellinagror foresaw what kind of battle we would be facing. He went to his death knowingly, but he saved our order. Where would we be without our void forts? We would be broken, and homeless. So let Dante punish us, if he really is, for leaving the Pentagarde out of the battle sphere. Consider, though, that we have the machinery aboard this fortress, and aboard the other five, to make our own Primaris brothers. Dante made sure we received this technology quickly. He did so because we are in a position to use it. Our fellow Chapters are not. Again, I say we came away better placed than others.’
‘I agree, brother-captain,’ said Lamorak reluctantly, ‘but the likes of Bedevoir will not be convinced. He is not alone, and nor is his grumbling limited to our Chapter. There is a sizeable faction among the Primaris of the Blood who think Dante too old to rule effectively. They chafe to be on crusade again. I know them, they are my brothers. This manner of service is strange to them.’
‘Let them chafe. They will cease biting their words, once they see what kind of man Dante is. I, too, thought his reputation too good to be true, until I fought by his side at the Arcus Elim. I was there when he led us out in a final charge into certain death. I saw him fall and rise again. If he chooses to give us a full set of reinforcements, I thank him. If he does not, I understand he has his reasons. I do not question him. I will not gainsay him. I will carry out his orders. The returned primarch himself gave him the right to give them. Go against Dante, and you go against the Emperor’s last living son. You served him. You know what that means.’
Lamorak was silenced awhile by Ares’ determination, then changed the subject.
‘Tomorrow I will begin testing the best of the local population for possible induction.’
‘Good. Continue your assessments at every world we visit. By the time this section of the tour is done, I want the sarcophagi full. This Chapter will rise again, and we shall play our part in that.’
They arrived at their destination, the Augury Psykanium, a facility between the empty Librarius and the Astropathic Temple.
Inside the psykanium there were more living souls than the pair of them had seen throughout all their walk: more than a dozen human servants of the forge, a similar number of mortal scriptors from the Librarius and three techpriests borrowed from Dulcis. Delgor, the Techmarine attached to the contingent, was present, directing all the rest. The machinery was idle but powered and ready for use. It emanated supernatural energies that made Ares’ eyes hurt.
‘Our honoured servants of the Librarius are to aid us with the operation of this machine,’ said Delgor when they arrived. ‘It’s all working as well as can be expected. Scriptor!’ Delgor called. ‘The captain is here.’
One of the mortals came forward and bowed before the captain. Like all the servants of the Red Wings, he was shaven-headed, with the Chapter insignia tattooed across his scalp.
‘You are Scriptor Everian,’ said Ares.
‘Yes, my lord, I am honoured you remember me.’
‘You can work this device without a Librarian to aid you?’
‘It would be easier with one of the battle-lords, but we can do it, my lord,’ said Everian. ‘Are the astropaths secure behind their baffles, my lord Priest?’ he asked Lamorak.
‘They are.’
‘Then we may proceed.’ Everian went to a command pulpit. His attendants began to work. ‘The discharging of this machine can be painful to those with psychic ability, if they are close by. Prepare for engagement.’
The device hummed, and the temperature of the room climbed steeply. Static electricity prickled Ares’ scalp. Everian looked to him and Ares nodded his assent to proceed. When he moved, a large spark leapt from his armour into the deck.
‘Engage scry-pulse.’
Fourteen thralls simultaneously threw large switches. The room shook once. The sensation of caged energy vanished, leaving Ares feeling peculiarly drained.
‘Begin power capture for second pulse,’ Everian commanded. ‘Readings will be available in a few moments.’
A mechanical cogitator rattled. The device took up several cubic yards of space and was attended by three forge thralls. Arrays of brass pistons pumped furiously. A thin line of punched parchment emerged inch by jerky inch from a slot in the side.
Patiently, the thralls gathered the parchment. A small blade chopped down with a metallic rasp, cutting it neatly. The paper was carried with all due reverence to a much sleeker machine and fed within. The device took the first inch slowly, then sucked it all in at once.
A screen came on, displaying an orbital image of Tywell of such realism it appeared as if the city had been captured and put inside the device. Soft glows lit up all over the image.
‘Signal count,’ said Everian.
A forge thrall went to the device and fiddled with several large knobs until a count appeared on the screen. ‘Planetary, one hundred and eighty-seven. Within the city of Tywell, thirteen.’
‘A hundred and eighty-seven?’ said Lamorak disbelievingly. ‘Exclude those incarcerated at the witch-pen.’
‘My lord,’ said the thrall. ‘That is excluding the camp.’
‘How accurate is the reading?’ asked Ares.
‘There is an error margin of forty per cent, give or take a few points,’ said Everian. ‘The chances of an underestimate are higher than that of an overestimate. The total number of returns in Tywell is high. They are close together. There is a high chance that some of the positive returns represent more than one individual. If we had a member of the Librarius here, then we would be able to tell. As it is…’ Everian shrugged apologetically.
‘Then we must cull them. Our ground forces are in position,’ said Ares. ‘Begin assigning them targets. Prioritise those in the richer districts.’
‘Shall we inform Lord Tyndall, my lord?’ asked Everian.
‘Only when the richer districts have been swept,’ said Ares. ‘The rich always run, and they are the only ones who have the resources to try. Give them as little warning as possible. Prepare for another scan mid-afternoon, by Tywell local time.’
‘We will be ready,’ said Everian.
‘Then begin at your discretion,’ commanded Ares. ‘I am needed on the surface.’
‘There were lights in the skies again last night,’ said Chalayus. ‘So pretty, so flickery! They danced and shone and it was ever so nice.’
‘Yeah,’ said Esmera. She wasn’t in the mood for Chalayus’ nonsense. Her head ached after the previous day’s pushing, and she was on edge, expecting the witch catchers to burst out of the reeking alleyways at any second. It wouldn’t happen, it never did, she was far too careful for that, but it didn’t stop her worrying about it. There were cages full of burned bones around the market square for girls like her. Either that, or the witch-pens.
‘Big ones and noises pop pop pop! All the sky.’ Chalayus waved her hand over the clouds. It was filthy, the lines in her palm seamed with dirt. ‘I felt it in my head and in my tummy. It made my head go funny. I liked it!’
They were walking alongside the crumbling bank of the Clara Flumine, seeing if anything edible had washed down the river in the night. Low cliffs of soft mud slipped under their feet, threatening to spill them into the brown flow. They were upriver, approaching the west wall, facing towards the citadel but away from the Administratum district. The smell wasn’t so bad up here, the city not having much chance to pollute the river yet, although every alley and hovel reeked of excrement.
Not that Chalayus noticed. She just kept up her babble as usual.
‘I would like a lovely fish for breakfast, or maybe some eel meat. That would be nice. I do like eel meat. I’ve not had it for such a long time.’
‘Shut up, Chalayus,’ said Esmera through gritted teeth.
The girl was younger than Esmera – not by much, she was probably seventeen or eighteen in standard terms, but she behaved like a child. Stool-wick had done that to her. There were plenty of fungiforms out in the swamps, and some of them had pleasant effects on the human mind if prepared right. Most of the pleasant effects came with less pleasant ones, and stool-wick had a bundle of each. Chalayus’ mind was a rainbow mess of nonsense thoughts. The girl couldn’t hold an idea in her head for longer than a second. She would never be able to, even if she stopped taking the drug. If she did she’d be left with a shattered mind crowded with fear, so she would never stop. It was probably for the best, considering the things Chalayus had been through. There were limited ways to make money in the city for people like them. A lot of them were damaging.
Esmera’s head ached. She had never had the knack of seeing thoughts, but today, somehow, she felt she could see right into Chalayus’ messed-up brain, and that made her headache worse.
‘And then I slept, and I had such lovely dreams, and I–’
‘Shut up, Chalayus!’
Just like that, Chalayus did shut up.
Esmera felt a familiar twinge deep in her brain, the one she got when she pushed. But she hadn’t pushed. At least, she had not meant to.
‘Chalayus?’
Chalayus looked at her dumbly. She frowned, puzzled.
‘Speak.’ Again, she pushed without pushing. She barely noticed she was doing it. Before, she’d had to concentrate. It was an act of focus only yesterday.
Noise burst out of Chalayus like water from a broken dam. ‘Wow, I didn’t want to talk for a minute. That’s not like me. Is that like me? I don’t know. But–’
Esmera had a thought. ‘Sit,’ she said.
Chalayus dropped to the ground. ‘Ow,’ she said in surprise.
Esmera reached out her hand. ‘Get up,’ she said.
Chalayus pulled on Esmera’s hand. Her arms were covered in self-inflicted scratches, bad tattoos and stool-wick scabs.
‘Why did I sit down? I didn’t want to sit down. But I did sit down.’
Esmera took great care in what she said next. She had to actively not push now. ‘Could you be quiet? Only for a moment.’
She ran a quick mental check. Usually after pushing she felt tired, wrung out, as if a little bit of her had been expended to get people to do what she wanted. It was like she was a gun, and her soul provided bullets, spending itself piece by piece. But not now. She felt fine.
She let out a delighted laugh.
‘Hey, hey, what’s up? What’s going on?’ said Chalayus. ‘Why are you laughing? Can I laugh too? What are you on? Can I have some? Please, please!’
‘You wanted some fish for breakfast, right?’
Chalayus nodded vigorously. The dirty dreadlocks piled on her head wobbled. ‘Yes! Fish. Or eel meat.’
