Hand Of Abaddon, page 18
And they had fallen on difficult times. Though they did not admit it, Rostov noticed their patched armour, the intensity with which they obsessively accounted for every resource. He assumed these were the bulk of their warriors, their tribe or clan. Their Kindred. Theirs was a mission of desperation, where everyone must play their part or risk the dissolution of the whole. They had revealed little of their plight so as not to weaken their bargaining position.
Rostov decided not to press this small advantage, for his need was desperate also. In truth, he did want to test which was greater: the Kin’s desire for survival or their stubbornness against accepting an unprofitable trade. So he had honoured the deal that had been brokered by Yamir: shipping and mining rights over certain Imperial territories and guaranteed trade with several Imperially held systems.
‘A fair price, as agreed,’ Rostov said in conclusion, already devising in his head the missives he would need to send to put these plans into motion. His seal would provide credence and surety in the moment.
Vutred eyed him shrewdly. ‘A correction, Imperial,’ she said, in a gravelly cadence. ‘No agreement was made, but rather a proposal. Our dealings remained inconclusive. No ink was writ, no spit shared, no balancing of the scales.’ She gestured to the prisoner, who remained in the custody of the Einhyr. The bulky armoured Kin glowered over the wretch, who grinned despite his dishevelled and emaciated state. ‘This here is of profound value, is it not? I fail to see how such a thing could have worth, but only the ancestors know these answers and I am not minded to ask. So then,’ she added, resting a gauntleted hand on her slab of a chin, ‘what is the offer?’
‘Offer?’ Rostov could not hide his incredulity. ‘The offer is made, kâhl, a fair price for a fair trade. In any account, I thought our aid in battle against this scum would have some worth…’
At once, the inquisitor realised he had made a mistake. Vutred’s face went from ruddy-cheeked vigour to purpling anger.
‘You speak of your interference as if it has value,’ she said, raising her voice and then getting to her feet.
Behind him, Rostov felt Nirdrangar and his men react, and the inquisitor made a swift and furtive hand gesture to keep them leashed. Any aggression now would be disastrous and potentially terminal.
‘I meant no offence,’ Rostov offered, his tone deferent. ‘But that prisoner is Imperial property.’
‘And yet offence was given. Luck has. Need keeps. Toil earns,’ she snapped, not the first aphorism he had heard from the Kin, who were perhaps unsurprisingly philosophical – especially the gnomic sage who stood a few paces behind his kâhl, looking on through the shadows of his hooded cloak. ‘You blunder into a fight you do not understand, Imperial. You force my hand tactically and I am meant to thank you for the expense it caused me? No.’ She shook her head decisively. ‘I will not be beholden. I will take this wretch, property or not, and throw it into our drive furnace.’
She made to leave again when Rostov made a plea.
‘Wait, Kâhl Vutred. Please. I misspoke and humbly apologise for any impropriety.’ He needed the prisoner and could not fail here through misjudgement. ‘Tell me what you need.’
Vutred looked about to shrug him off but Rostov caught her sharing a glance with her sage, the Grimnyr, who answered her silent question with a surreptitious shake of his head.
The tension defused a fraction, allowing for negotiation to continue.
‘Fuel,’ said Vutred. ‘We have need of fuel.’ She turned.
Rostov nodded. ‘Very well. There are Imperial depots in the vicinity. I can sanction the requisition of fuel.’
After a swift calculation, the Iron-master handed Vutred a slate, which she brandished to the inquisitor.
‘This much will meet our needs.’ The avaricious glint had returned. She was pushing it, but Rostov had no time to negotiate. And Vutred knew it.
‘It will be met,’ he said, and offered his hand in order to shake on the agreement. ‘Do we have an accord?’
She pulled off her gauntlet. A mechanised creature that resembled a robotic head and torso drifted over to her on anti-gravitic impellers. The strange familiar carried a clear casket that was suspended beneath it on cables, and Vutred put the gauntlet inside, a shimmering stasis field immediately enveloping the glove.
Her bare hand was scarred and leathern. She hawked and spat into the palm.
Rostov didn’t hesitate as she clapped his outstretched hand in a firm grip.
‘Aye, true as wrought.’ The slightest twinkle in her eye suggested she was enjoying his displeasure.
The Einhyr released the traitor, only for him to be immediately seized by the waiting storm troopers. Rostov gave a surreptitious gesture to the rest and they withdrew, the tension immediately easing.
Rostov resisted the urge to flex his fingers at her unreasonably tight grasp, as she released her grip and he departed. The Kin watched him and his men every step.
Only once they were out of sight and heading back to the gunships did Rostov sag, having kept his fatigue hidden from the Kin. He leaned on Lacrante, who had noticed him struggling, and saw Antoniato fall into step behind, the two veterans sharing a worried glance.
Rostov had not the strength to disabuse them of their concern. The fight had taken more out of him than he realised, but the price wasn’t yet fully paid. His body would suffer again. And soon.
Cheelche whistled. ‘Greedy little bastards, aren’t they?’ She was about to follow up with more when she saw Rostov’s condition and shut up. Hefting her rifle, she joined Nirdrangar at the front of the party instead.
After the Imperials had gone, Vutred stayed to look over the battlefield. Bodies lay all about, blood spatter and destruction. She only saw the waste.
She felt the presence of Othed behind her.
‘It was a calculated risk,’ she said, refitting her gauntlet with a hiss of equalising pressure. ‘The moon could have yielded more. I know it isn’t enough.’
‘Much was unforeseen.’
‘And yet our plight has not changed, Othed. Nor has our need. If we do not find better fortune and take what destiny has deemed is mine…’ She trailed off, her mood growing dark.
‘Nothing less than our existence is at stake. Without the prize, the Omrigar will be no more. Exile from the League, my kâhl.’
Vutred nodded ruefully. The heathen cults, the Imperials. They had not accounted for any of that. She had six ships in a flotilla currently at high anchor above the moon. Monitors, up-gunned haulers and several stout war-barques. Powerful in a fight but stripped back, lean, and edging towards desperate. They needed more than fuel. War weary, battered, they needed refit and repair, but there were none she could call upon, and a Kindred’s need to consider.
‘Their holds should be occupied by resource, not the dead.’
‘True as wrought,’ murmured Othed.
She sucked her teeth, biting down her dismay. None would see it.
‘It is out there somewhere, Othed, our motherlode. The ancestors have spoken of it, therefore it is true. As certain as the void is in our veins.’ Her gimlet gaze settled on a smashed Hearthkyn helmet, its visor cracked, the helm itself split down the middle. It had been missed during the sweeps and lay amongst the carcasses of enemy dead.
‘Find us a heading, my Grimnyr. Ask the ancestors for their wisdom.’
‘The Votann has been obstinate of late. The veracity of its wisdom is not what it once was, and may be difficult to interpret.’
‘I have faith in you, old friend. Every scrap matters now. Everything.’
‘I shall see it done, our true path revealed.’
‘Good… else I fear it will be our end.’
She turned then, headed for the landers, and left the shattered helm behind to be forgotten amidst the dust and the dead.
She was waiting for him upon his return.
The Silent had barely moved, if she had moved at all. Rostov honestly could not tell. He had already warned off Lacrante when the acolyte had suggested Rostov should pay a visit to the infirmary. He had no time for that, nor for the dulling of his senses that a sedative would inflict. Pain kept him sharp. He would use it. Nirdrangar had taken the prisoner to the cells, prepping him for interrogation.
Rostov hoped he was ready, though ultimately it was a case of having to be.
The last of his tasks before heading to his quarters to retrieve his tools of excoriation had been to instruct Lacrante to set up a rendezvous with the lead ship from Battle Group Iolus. If luck was with them, he would have extracted something operationally significant from the traitor in his custody before they reached the flotilla, and he would have it to support his argument for reinforcement. Never had the Imperium felt so stretched, tight enough to snap. He remembered days before the Rift when requisitioning entire fleets of ships would have been as straightforward as breathing the words. All of that had changed with the coming of the primarch and his crusade of reconquest. Rostov could practically feel the knife edge they were on, the sharp brink and the cold promise of oblivion on the other side of it.
And thus he had no time. Yet here she was, standing in his way like an immoveable statue. He was about to order her to move, feeling his temper for the Silent fraying, when she spoke.
What is happening to you?
Her massive sword sheathed at her back, she crafted the words with her hands. The eyes, stark and cold above the high gorget covering her mouth, conveyed her seriousness. She had observed, listened, and now she wanted answers.
Rostov had some skill in thoughtmark. It was the ordos’ principal method of non-verbal communication amongst their own ranks, and he was able to understand her meaning well enough for them to communicate effectively.
‘I have an affliction,’ he said, feeling no need to dissemble. He did not disclose how bad it was getting. ‘A consequence of using my “gift”, I fear.’
He swallowed down his mild revulsion at the continued exposure to her presence but noticed the pain of the corruption in his flesh had eased, the intense burning, the needles that had sharpened to daggers over the passing days. It was a bleak trade, Rostov reflected.
She brandished her vambrace, showing him the limiter around her wrist.
This, she signed, and began to slowly turn the cuff, regulates.
Almost immediately, Rostov felt his gut tighten and the near-irresistible urge to vomit seized him. He had felt this before and thought he was acclimatised, but this effect was potent. He retched, hot and acrid bile in his throat. A feeling of utter revulsion welled up inside him. Suddenly on his knees, hands curling into fists, vision blurring, he wanted to–
He rasped, ‘Enough.’
And the Silent turned the limiter cuff back to its original setting. The feeling faded, ushering in the return of pain.
It is the warp, she signed, a corruption of the body.
‘I suppose,’ said Rostov sadly, ‘we are all damned in the end.’ He had known the cause for a while but hoped he could endure long enough to finish his mission. He wondered how long he had left and prayed it wouldn’t be measured in days.
She didn’t reply.
‘I must break the traitor I have below in the cells. Everything he knows, everything he does not know that he knows, I must possess it. All of it. There is only one way. The risk is egregious to me if I do, but it is a far greater risk to the Imperium if I do not. Am I not a servant of the Emperor? Duty unto death.’
Yes, Inquisitor Rostov. That is all any of us are. She touched a gauntleted hand to her chest. Syreniel.
Rostov gave a thin smile. ‘And I was becoming accustomed to you only as “the Silent”.’ Remembering something, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the simple iron icon of the Mordian 84th. ‘May I ask, what is this? Why did you leave it for me to find?’
Syreniel told him. Of her secondment to Admiral Ardemus of Praxis, of the Kamidar mission and the narrowly averted Imperial civil war. Rostov had known something of the aborted Kamidar rebellion, though none of the details, and he was well familiar with Guilliman’s desire to establish the Anaxian Line as a bulwark against further aggression from sundered Cadia, though his own goals had never intersected with the endeavour.
I took this from a soldier’s rifle, Syreniel continued. I confess that I do not know why and merely followed the compulsion I felt at the time to do so. Perhaps I wished to hold some keepsake of hers, a memory.
‘Who was she?’
Someone who appeared to be nondescript, though was something more.
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
Nor do I, alas. I felt the touch of providence about her, though. As if the divine sat upon her shoulder.
‘You mean the Emperor’s will?’
Syreniel made the sign of the aquila and gave a single nod.
Turning the icon around in his hand, Rostov considered the simple acts that had led to this moment and wondered what greater events they might yet portend. He recalled his conversation with Lacrante in the infirmary before they had met up with the Kin, and then came memories of the cult of the Church of the Ever-Living Emperor on Srinagar and their beliefs about His potential re-emergence.
He began to wonder what it might all mean, before the present reasserted itself and he turned his mind to the pressing task at hand.
And then he saw again the cuff on Syreniel’s wrist, and an idea began to form.
Chapter Seventeen
the obsidian mirror
an alliance
one fate
Augury formed out of shadow, one moment nothing and then suddenly apparent.
They appeared before Yheng like an apparition as she stood by the edge of the mirrored pool, not knowing how she had got here or why. The fortress had many uncharted depths, it seemed.
‘Tell me, Yheng,’ said Augury, their cloak voluminous as it billowed on an unfelt breeze, ‘what do you see in the mirror?’
‘I…’ uttered Yheng, her unease worsening. She felt the cold hand of fate on her shoulder, gently urging her, but towards what? Her thoughts swirled, fierce as a maelstrom, and Yheng found herself trying to resist their pull for fear of where they might take her. ‘I…’
Something moved within the mirror, a droplet, only in reverse, the tremors across the surface rippling from the edge to the centre, and from it something began to form, emerging from within the mirror. Silver at first, it began to coalesce into something more… someone whom she recognised.
‘No…’ rasped Yheng.
Overwhelmed, she fled. She spied a fresh fissure in the black rock and scrambled through it. She ran through lightless corridors, through claustrophobic apertures, crawled under oppressive low-ceilinged chambers, on and on into the chilling dark with no real sense of where she was going, only that she had to escape. She needed to regroup, a moment to catch a breath, to make sense of what was happening to her.
‘Let me out of this place!’ she roared into a flat and echoless space, trying to marshal her sorcery, only to be denied. Great stalactites of black crystal speared from the ceiling, a veritable inverted forest of knife-edged pain reaching down for her.
Noctilith, that’s what Tenebrus had called it. A substance that could disrupt the warp.
She cursed him, and then saw a shape lurking in the forest above her. It crept through the crystal branches, one protruding limb to another, precise in every movement. Near silent and delicate. Arachnid, she thought at first, her fascination at the creature keeping her in place even as her sense of self-preservation urged her to run. Without her sorcery, she was vulnerable. But to run would be to spring its trap, for the creature was not alone. Another and another, spindly and long-limbed, slow and deliberate, crept through the stalactites. Dull red lenses flared as the creatures’ sensors found her.
Not arachnid at all, and not the sleek drones she had seen in other parts of the fortress, the mute caretakers that hovered seemingly without purpose or design. These creatures had a design, and they walked on two limbs, nimble and long of gait, mantis-like with two forelimbs that ended in two long blades.
Mechanicum, she realised, with a sinking feeling overtaking her limbs. Yheng had only her ritual knife – it was literally the only weapon she carried, and not much of one at that. She knew with certainty the creatures were after her.
They will not take me easily, she thought, a snarl curling her mouth. Having reached this far, she would not falter now. It was her destiny to rise. Her ascension was earned and it was due. No longer would she be afraid, no longer would she be subservient. Life was fear, the two as indivisible as sand and stone. All that mattered was how you controlled it. In the face of death or enslavement, a much worse fate.
The three who meant to end her existence slid from the rocky perches to land on the ground in a soft ring of steel.
‘Abandon me, then!’ she cried, casting about for Augury, but they were nowhere to be seen. ‘I will not be your puppet,’ she vowed but fear slid in anyway, despite her vehemence, as the creatures closed in. Not fear of death, but that she would be denied what she believed was hers. For her path to end here… The voices in the black chamber, Tenebrus’ ritual: it meant something. She was important.
Chosen…
Subconsciously, Yheng outstretched her hand in a gesture to ward off her attackers, who she saw properly for the first time in the lambent bioluminescence of the chamber. They shambled across the ground, far less gainly than when they had crept across the ceiling. Machines, killers. They moved hunched, and bled tracts of oil in their wake. As their regard fell upon her, their red eye-lenses became as bright as fire.
The lead machine sprang, launching its bipedal form into the air, blades singing…
