Hand Of Abaddon, page 15
Areios could not understand why they appeared so gilded to him, as if from some glorious dream, but almost thin or faded as though he was seeing them through misted glass.
He heard his brothers, their sudden shouts of alarm.
His side felt cold, then came a burning sensation and Areios looked down at the knife piercing his armour plate. The sigils on the knife’s skull-crested hilt hurt his eyes and he realised he must have removed his helmet at some point, because he saw it lying at his feet.
Cicero appeared at his side, and then Drussus, holding him as his legs collapsed. The last sight he remembered was Captain Epathus running towards him, shouting out his name.
Chapter Fourteen
leads
the kin
name your price
Greyfax had neglected to provide a name and she had, as of yet, not provided one herself, so Rostov came to think of her as the Silent. He felt her presence behind him as a queasiness in his gut, a symptom of her nature. Not unexpected, for he had fought beside the Sisterhood before, but still unpleasant. He focused on the wall. On the investigation. Here, across transcribed scraps of sightings, witness testimonies, vid-captures of sigils and more besides, was every piece of evidence he had gathered surrounding the identity and possible whereabouts of the Hand.
Missives from several astropathic stations had narrowed the search to a sector, which was hardly narrow at all, but the transcribed visions from the indentured psykers had provided an overabundance of often contradictory information. Variously, the blind seers had spoken of a cemetery of broken swords and an axe cutting through a wall of shields; of a great black beast straining at its chains and a horn-headed monster anointed with blood. Or the golden king surrounded on all sides and a fallen gate that released a deluge. Gibberish without accurate translation, and this was proving difficult. All of it made for grim reading, and the transliterators tasked with interpreting these ravings seemed unable to agree or even suggest commonalities.
The warp was in turmoil and for those who dreamed of its tides there was only nightmare and horror. It tended to produce unreliable narrators. Many of the stations Rostov had petitioned had not replied or never would, and their silence was recorded as diligently as any semi-coherent message, for the absence of data was just as telling as its presence.
A sketch, his own, described the sorcerer. And this much, at least, Rostov did know about his enemy. Tenebrus was the name he had given. A shadow, appropriately enough; long and wraith-like with pale skin and an overlarge mouth. A creature of Chaos, no doubt, but not the man Rostov had seen during his vision when he had questioned the Dark Apostle at Machorta Sound.
As an interrogator, Rostov had learned early on in his career never to trust the word of the enemy. And yet the sorcerer’s claim that he was the Hand did not ring false. And if it were, why make the claim at all? What did he have to gain from Rostov learning such knowledge, or was it simply this – to obfuscate and bewilder?
Another mystery.
Perturbing too was the presence of a cult he had unearthed on Srinagar. A worrying and perplexing development. How this connected to the sorcerer and the Archenemy’s plan – or whether there was any connection at all – he did not know, but all the while he remained in the dark these things could twist and reshape, hold greater perils than he even now feared.
Contradiction invited doubt and Rostov craved certainty. He needed a path but could see no pattern, no obvious thread to pull next. In the light shining upon the wall, the inquisitor saw only further darkness.
The rest of his study was in actual shadow, the other furnishings lost to it and pushed aside in his frustration. A porcelain statue lay smashed, quill ink spilled on the floor in a shiny slick. He padded in it barefoot, leaving perfect prints in greasy black wherever he stepped.
Although expansive and taking up the entirety of the wall, his findings had yielded few firm leads. He had sent out requests across the segmentum and beyond to every contact, pressed every underworld figure he knew, and yet…
He could ill afford this detour. He needed to press on to the fleet and a rendezvous with an ally who might be able to help him where Greyfax could not. But if Yamir had found a lead, a genuine lead… well, that might result in the troops he needed to prosecute this mission. If, always if. There was much to consider.
Rostov winced and shut his eyes against the light, pinching the bridge of his nose. Discomfort was clouding his cognition. He reflected on how his old master, Jeren Dyre, used to go about his work, on everything the inquisitor lord had taught him. Dyre had been meticulous. No avenue left unexplored, no leads not chased down. He was a man who, once he had a scent of blood, did not relent. It had killed him in the end.
‘I am found wanting in your shadow…’ he murmured and heard the slightest movement from his only companion in the room. His eyes snapped open, brow furrowed in anger. ‘Is that you, oh ghost? Oh, Silent…’ he hissed. ‘If you have a revelation then utter it, for I am running out of time for riddles and games. Our enemy has his plans in motion and we are behind the trail. Woefully so.’ He cursed. ‘I need men and materiel, I need armies to seek and find. Yet all I am afforded is you. So if you have insight,’ he said, growing ever more perturbed as he turned, shouting, ‘then please share it!’
But the Silent had gone, leaving Rostov alone with his impotent anger. He had always prided himself on the mastery of his humours. His ordinarily calm disposition was a tool in his arsenal, and a potent one.
Never let them see you bleed or sweat, Leonid.
Wise words, Rostov reflected. A pity he was struggling to put them into practice.
Feeling foolish, he was about to return to the wall when he noticed something left on the floor. It was a simple regimental badge made of iron. Mordian 84th. He stooped and retrieved it, examining the plain machined piece in his hand. He could only assume that the Silent had dropped it or left it. He doubted any of her kind did anything that was not deliberate. Rostov almost called out after her, but the pain had come back. Worse than before. Worse every day, now. Sharp needles in his hand, the scar-tissue itch on his back.
A malaise of the spirit, not just the body.
He took one last look at the wall, desperate for his contact to yield something of import, something he could use.
Yamir has never let me down before.
Then he pocketed the badge and turned out the lights.
The infirmary wasn’t far. His ship, the Omnes Videntes, was of a modest size. It had a shuttle named the Res Fugit and was usually cold and dark, as Rostov preferred it. Decently armed for a fight but no match for the great battle cruisers of the Navy. It had a small crew, lean and just enough to maintain operational efficiency. A complement of storm troopers provided by Greyfax added some muscle. Enough for most encounters, but far short of his needs.
As he reached the infirmary he found Hayden Lacrante already there. The trooper had his back to him, rummaging around in the drawers of med-supplies. He started, almost crashing into the gurney behind him, when Rostov coughed to alert him to his presence.
‘Needed some sickness meds,’ the soldier explained, and looked paler than usual. ‘Warp transit, especially coming out of it,’ he added. ‘Turns my stomach, makes me restless.’
‘I know the feeling,’ Rostov sympathised.
Lacrante offered a handful of morphia tabs. ‘Something for the pain, I take it?’
He had a soldier’s bearing with a straight back and Militarum haircut. Rostov had brought him into his employ on Fomor III, where Lacrante had been a lieutenant serving as part of the 47th Illusiti Pioneers. Impressed with his character and his courage, Rostov had wasted no time recruiting him. He had seen something in the man, a purpose he could not yet foresee but was cognisant of enough to know Lacrante would be important. For now, he was Rostov’s acolyte and a well-trained, capable one. Not as irascible as Antoniato. And he had faced some of the true perils of the universe and remained stalwart. Those were traits an inquisitor needed in his allies.
‘You know me well,’ Rostov said, and took the morphia tabs.
‘It hasn’t improved?’
‘A little,’ he lied, and swallowed one of the tabs, grimacing at the chalky taste. ‘But we have greater concerns.’
‘Because of what you found in the archive on Terra? Antoniato said you looked, if you’ll forgive me, lord, shaken. I do not believe I have ever seen you like that. That in itself, I would say, is cause for concern.’
‘I am shaken, I do not mind confessing it. Strength comes from one’s character – it is born within, not merely an outward projection. I had hoped for… more from Greyfax, but she was unable to provide it. What she did afford, our silent guest, is not enough, Lacrante. Not nearly enough.’
‘I still have hope,’ said the trooper, and Rostov felt a profound sense of gratitude for that, for the simple and honest belief of a soldier. ‘The presence of one of the Emperor’s own cadre of warriors suggests some providence, does it not?’
‘Perhaps…’ said Rostov, unconvinced. ‘Never have the stakes been higher than since the outset of the crusade. I asked for an army and received a handful of fighters. Highly capable fighters, but even the most gifted warrior falls if he or she must fight alone.’ He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, acutely aware of the stigmatic marks in the skin of his hand. Lacrante did an admirable job of trying not to notice, but Rostov saw the shock in his expression, guarded as it was. ‘No,’ he went on, ‘we must look to ourselves for this. I have a few favours I can call upon. An old friend who has some standing in the crusade hierarchy may yet be our salvation. And then there’s this…’ Rostov showed Lacrante the regimental badge. It glinted dully as the light touched the metal.
Lacrante frowned. ‘What is that? I mean, I can see it’s a regiment badge but what is it doing here?’
‘I don’t know. Isn’t that intriguing? I think our guest left it for me, though she has not been forthcoming as to why or to what it pertains.’
‘Have you asked her?’
‘I plan to, though I’m not sure she would know either. I do wonder about her, Lacrante, about why she has crossed our path. About her purpose.’
‘Well, I only know that the troopers and the crew give her a wide berth. Something about her, it’s… off-putting. And it’s as if I can only ever half see her, like a reflection in a pane of glass but at the edge of my sight.’
‘She is a pariah, both in the literal and metaphysical sense. Put simply, she has no soul. Such an absence provokes a reaction in those that do, that repulsion you have felt. It is also anathema to other creatures, those who also have no souls, the Neverborn that lurk beyond the veil. I hate her presence as much as you, Lacrante, I cannot help it, but she could prove a vital ally in the days to come. And maybe some of that providence you spoke of.’
‘Ever am I reminded of how little I know.’
‘You would do well to keep it that way.’ Rostov gave a mirthless chuckle, his face turning sad for a moment. ‘But, alas, I do not think that will be your fate.’ He brandished the other tab in a clenched fist, his mood brightening but still weary. ‘My thanks for this,’ said Rostov as he turned his back.
‘Do you think there is any truth to it?’ asked Lacrante, making Rostov pause.
‘Truth to what?’
‘To His… return, resurgence? It is hard to put into words. The cultists on Srinagar. They believed in the Emperor’s apotheosis, they had faith in a miracle rebirth. I cannot decide if that comforts or terrifies me.’
‘It should do both,’ Rostov replied, and walked away.
Antoniato waited for them on the bridge of the Omnes Videntes. All stations were slowly returning to normal, the Inquisitorial cruiser having returned to the materium, much to the relief of all. Residue lingered here and there, now fading, and steam drifted off several of the consoles. A strange scent of sulphur threaded the air. Antoniato sniffed at it, scowled. The Guard veteran looked none the worse for wear, hardy as he was and ready for immediate deployment. His plasma rifle hung off a strap around his body and he wore carapace armour. He hadn’t changed since Terra, his fatigues still roughed with the grime of the Throneworld.
Besides the crew quietly busying themselves at consoles in the penumbral darkness of the bridge, one other figure stood out. Unlike the rest, Cheelche was not human. She had four arms and a stout, barrel-shaped body with flecked brownish skin. Her head was almost piscine, her mouth lipless and her nose flat. She belonged to a species called the chikanti, a xenos of more or less unknown origin, though not one currently at war with the Imperium.
She gave Rostov a sour look as he entered the bridge to take up position in his command throne. He wore his armour now, a suit of silver close-fitting carapace, and had a sheathed power sword and a pistol holstered at his left hip. Lacrante followed behind, wearing his Militarum uniform and flak coat with a lasgun, sword and laspistol. The Silent came in a few paces after him. She towered over the others, a silver-armoured statue with a greatsword strapped to her back and a high gorget covering her mouth. Stern, kohl-ringed eyes regarded the others as she took up a position to the side, a few feet away from the group.
‘I’ll just say out loud what we’re all thinking?’ said Cheelche, her long fingers hooked into the bandoliers criss-crossed over her stocky body. ‘She bothers me. Even allowing for the fact that any time she looks at me, I want to puke, I do not trust her.’
‘I don’t need you to trust her, Cheelche,’ said Rostov patiently, ‘I need only that you trust me.’ He glanced in the Silent’s direction but only really perceived a sort of smudged haze, as if she was at the very limit of his peripheral vision.
Cheelche was not placated. ‘It may have escaped everyone’s notice but I am not like the rest of you.’ She waggled her many arms to emphasise her point. ‘And her kind are not known for their tolerance.’
‘Easy, Cheelche,’ murmured Antoniato, who had a way of being able to calm the xenos that the others lacked.
Though, Rostov had no time for her antics on this occasion.
‘And yet you will still exercise tolerance,’ he informed her more firmly.
At this the xenos folded her arms, unimpressed. ‘Well, if I wake up with a bloody great sword in my back, I’ll know who to blame.’
He ignored her further griping. The shutters were rising at the fore of the bridge now the Omnes Videntes had left the warp, and the great expanse of the void beckoned. And there, amid the blackness and the blanket of stars, was an ochre moon. Riddled with fortified shafts and boreholes, so massive they were visible even from a distance, the moon was also clad with machineries. A vast mine-head by any other description. The current holdings of the Kin.
‘What do we know about these creatures?’ asked Antoniato, cutting through Cheelche’s tantrum and flashing an urging glance at the chikanti, who responded with an expletive gesture with two of her hands. Perhaps he was losing his touch.
‘They are called the Kin. Abhuman class,’ Rostov explained, ‘prospectors and void-miners, and until recently largely confined to the galactic core. I have never dealt with them before, but I am given to understand they are proud and may not take well to any disrespect, intended or not.’ He looked to Cheelche. ‘So you will need to remain silent throughout whatever exchange Yamir has arranged for us.’
‘Oh, well that can eat a huge plate of my shit,’ she said with a scowl.
‘Regardless, Cheelche, it is my will. We make landfall, alone,’ he said to the group. ‘The four of us.’
The creak of her gauntlets had everyone turn to the Silent, who loomed like a spectre in the shadows at the edge of the bridge.
‘You will remain here, Silent. I do not know what effect your presence will have on the Kin’s mood and I cannot risk this on a moment of botched diplomacy.’
Cheelche muttered, ‘Suppose I should be grateful that at least I make the surface over the bloody mute witch-killer.’ She caught a cold glare from the Silent and shut her mouth at once.
‘But they are allies?’ asked Lacrante.
‘I damn well hope so,’ offered Antoniato, ‘or we four will not be alive long to lament that they are not.’
‘Allies, yes. I believe so,’ Rostov confirmed. ‘But have no doubt, we must tread carefully here. Yamir has told us much about our hosts, but that does not mean we should know what to expect. Once at their encampment, we have to be prepared for anything.’
Rostov crouched in the dust, and frowned at the empty helm. It was domed, with an inbuilt visor, and the clasps that presumably attached it to the larger suit had been forcibly broken. It had the wrong proportions to be worn by someone human. Light orange powder smeared the edges of his boots from the short walk from the dropsite. As he took in the destruction at the encampment, he was beginning to wish he had asked the transports to linger.
‘Could have been a mining accident, a gas explosion, something volatile they extracted?’ suggested Lacrante. He was nosing through a shattered hauler, its material load cast across the ground, the vehicle itself perched precariously on its side with one of its wheels torn off to the axle. There were burn marks on the chassis and large punctures in the metal.
‘Looks to me like it was used as a barricade,’ offered Cheelche. ‘Assuming,’ she said pointedly to Rostov, ‘that I have permission to speak and voice an opinion.’
‘Don’t be facetious, Cheelche,’ answered Rostov curtly, then added, ‘What else do you see?’
The chikanti pointed to a patch of ground a few feet away. ‘Scuff marks over there,’ she said, her other three arms holding her long-las fusil in a ready position. ‘Lots of them. Booted feet shuffling. Could be a group turning to look in several directions. The kind of thing you do if you’re surrounded.’
