Hand Of Abaddon, page 28
Pain will do that, he supposed as he clung with both hands to the silverwood staff. Turn someone bitter and caustic.
Not for the first time since their parting, Rostov was glad he had sent Lacrante and the others to Luna. They might need a new master after this was over, and he had no doubt that Greyfax would see their talents put to use for another. A small comfort, perhaps. He stopped himself, suddenly aware of how maudlin he had become, first his body and now his mind beginning to contaminate.
‘I worry…’ he said aloud, using a cloth to wipe his mouth and seeing it come back stained red. He wasn’t surprised, and then felt her presence behind him. ‘You have taken to shadowing me of late, oh Silent.’
Syreniel came to stand beside him, also staring out into the darkness of the void. Rostov turned to her but could find no hint of feeling on her face. The Sisterhood had burned it out of her as if they’d seared every nerve ending.
How so? she asked, in that most elegant way she had about her.
‘I worry that I will not be enough for this fight. That I will fail my Imperium and my Emperor.’
That is not what worries you.
Rostov raised an eyebrow. He had become accustomed to her, and even found the mild distaste generated by her presence oddly reassuring. At least when her limiter was fully engaged.
‘When did you become an expert in psychology, Syreniel?’
I know when someone is lying, she signed. Those who cannot speak listen well. I hear the lie.
Rostov gave a half-hearted chuckle, bringing up a little more blood, which he only needed to dab away.
‘This mission. This… calling. It has obsessed me since I first heard the name “the Hand of Abaddon”. I have sacrificed a great deal to get here. To this moment. I fear what it all portends, what it means for the crusade and the Imperium. Much is still in the balance, and while I am self-aware enough to realise I cannot remedy every crisis, I believe I can stop the Hand. But I worry.’ He had moved to face the void again but looked at Syreniel now, and found her looking back at him. ‘I worry that I will not be the one to see it done, that I will not lead the fight. That this cruel malaise will take from me what I have striven so hard to attain.’
He let out a long, shuddering breath and faced the viewport once more. The Silent Sister stood reflected in it, a pale and silver-armoured ghost.
‘Is it hubris, Syreniel, to feel like this?’
She did not answer straight away, and for a brief moment, Rostov thought she might not answer at all, before she lifted her hands.
I am a pariah to my species, and to the only kinswomen I ever knew. I am alone, and feel the terror of that loneliness in my every waking moment. I understand the fear that comes from loss, and the wild edge of sorrow that follows in its wake.
And here Rostov caught a glimmer of emotion, not a thawing but rather a deliberate slip of the mask in the softening of Syreniel’s eyes and the pained furrow of her brow.
You are an inquisitor of the Holy Ordos, and you carry His authority more readily than I, who am merely a profound symbol of His will… But you are also human, and so not immune to regret, and the grief for what you have lost and may yet lose. I do not think it is hubristic, Leonid Rostov. I think it is rational fear and none, certainly not I, would judge you for that.
He was stunned, near literally. Never had one who had spoken so little said so much. Rostov bowed his head.
‘I am glad to have you as a companion in this,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Whatever happens next, she signed, I will be your sword and shield. Praise the Emperor.
Rostov nodded, feeling a sense of affirmation as he made the sign of the aquila.
And as he looked, another ship emerged from the warp, trailing threads of immaterial ether, its blunt-nosed prow crackling with corposant. Unexpected, unlooked for, but here. Not a ship of the Imperial Navy, it was smaller and lighter but infinitely more predatory. A strike cruiser in shimmering blue, reflected starlight briefly turning its hull incandescent.
He recognised the massive white symbol on its flank and was reminded of words once spoken by his dead master.
We cannot know the Emperor’s will, Dyre had said, only act as His instruments.
‘Ultramarines…’ uttered Rostov. ‘Praise the Emperor, indeed.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
war council
venturing into the unknown
talk between soldiers
The strategic council had gathered under the Emperor’s most enduring symbol.
Aboard the Macharius, the largest ship in the small fleet, Areios took in the majesty of the Imperial aquila engraved in the marble ceiling. Even now, long after his apotheosis and in service to the most lauded Chapter of the entire Adeptus Astartes, he felt humbled in its presence, and by everything that it represented for his species and the Imperium itself.
It had been unexpected, he conceded upon reflection, to see the ships here, arrayed and readying for war. Perhaps it should not have surprised him, but he had secretly harboured the notion that Maendaius might no longer have been reliable. He had certainly diminished during the long march from the dead city and back to the landing fields at Arrandius.
Epathus and the other honoured dead had come with them at Areios’ order. With no other lieutenant in the company, and with the Librarian touching the edge of madness, he led the Sixth Company now, and did so readily. He did not consider himself ambitious, but he knew it was his duty, and so he served and without compunction. The weapon he had been gifted remained a heavy burden, and more than just physically. He had barely hefted the hammer, let alone wielded it.
The passage from Garrovire had passed, as many transits did, without event, he and his Chapter brothers spending time in silent meditation as they mourned their fallen brethren, or training with sword and axe or on the weapons ranges.
Areios had instead chosen to repair his armour and sharpen a fresh blade, as if it wasn’t already lethal. The company had helots for such tasks, and their craft met the gruelling Astartes’ standards, for this was their calling and their purpose as citizens of the Realm of Ultramar and servants of the Chapter. But Areios found the task appealing, a rare moment of calm in the tumult of his thoughts.
Only once did he visit Maendaius in the cell of his incarceration. He had been chained, and shackled about the neck with a null collar to dampen his abilities, all of this at the Librarian’s own insistence in his increasingly rare moments of lucidity. He had found him murmuring, speaking again of what he had seen, his dark revelation.
Areios had come in hopes of conversing with the Librarian – of making sense of Epathus’ death and those of his brothers, and of Helicio, whose remains, including his progenoid glands, had been burned and left on Garrovire. He had needed to hear the Librarian’s confession again, the exact words he had spoken before they had made for the landers.
They have the Eight, he had said, and the means to reforge a weapon of ancient malice…
A troubling omen, but in Areios’ experience they had never been anything other.
And so they had come to Nadir, the last outpost before the Stygius Gilt. Areios had brought Cicero with him, the master sergeant acting as his second-in-command. The presence of the Astartes had sent tremors through the war party, felt nowhere more acutely than in this chamber aboard the battleship. He assessed the other officers swiftly.
They were mainly human, a motley assortment of Militarum and Navy officers. No other Space Marines, but this did not leave him overly troubled. The head of the council was an agent of the ordos, an inquisitor. He knew of this man.
Rostov.
He cut a very different figure to the one with whom Areios was familiar.
A wizened man presented himself, a gaunt wraith with thinning white hair, a patchy beard and silver carapace armour that seemed too large for his frame. Whatever rigours the war had visited upon Rostov, they had been severe, and to his obvious detriment. But then again, ordinary humans were not as durable as Astartes.
He had two others with him, his inner circle. Areios had minimal experience of inquisitors but knew they seldom travelled alone. One had the look of a huntress, bedecked in furs, her face inked to hide some old and grievous wound. She bristled in the presence of him and his brothers, as if sensing another predator. Areios paid it no mind. The third of the ‘ruling’ triumvirate was worthy of his attention, nothing less than a Talon of the Emperor, one of the Silent Sisterhood. To her, Areios inclined his head and saw the gesture reciprocated, one warrior to another.
An eclectic assembly.
In consideration to the ordinary humans, both Areios and Cicero had removed their helmets and held them one-handed at their sides, their other hand not far from their blades. And still he felt the anxiety of the other officers, of being in the Astartes’ presence.
Rostov’s voice, strong despite his outward infirmity, broke the tension.
‘As of this moment, you, your troops and your ships are indentured to the service of the Holy Inquisition.’ He glanced at the Ultramarines here as if preparing to meet a challenge, but they gave none. Maendaius had led them here, and so it was here they must be. Areios would serve and do whatever was necessary to prevent the coming darkness.
‘Know this, what I reveal to you now is of the highest confidentiality. An agent of the enemy known as the Hand of Abaddon is believed to be at large in this region of the subsector, the Stygius Gilt.’ At this, an image flickered into being, a hovering projection over the strategium dais around which they were all crowded. ‘This agent must be found and stopped. Their plan, if successful, will have dire consequences, and could shift the precarious state of the war against us. We will hunt them down, and by the God-Emperor, we must destroy them.’
‘What else is known of this… “Hand”?’ asked an imperious-looking woman with gilded chains hung about her pristine Navy uniform and an ornate cutlass strapped to her belt, the shipmistress of the Macharius. ‘Its military strength, its stronghold if it has one.’
‘I shall not dissemble, shipmistress,’ Rostov replied, his glare unwavering. ‘We are venturing into the unknown. Gathered intelligence suggests a stronghold of some kind, concealed thus far. I believe it is alone, or else it would have been discovered by agents of the ordos by now. Nonetheless, we must be prepared for anything.’
The shipmistress gave a curt nod but did not look appeased. If anything, the unease in the room intensified.
‘And how are we to find our enemy amidst the Gilt?’ she asked. ‘None here need me to point out it is a vast region of the void. We could search for years and still cover but a fraction of its expanse.’
Here, Rostov deferred to one of his allies, the unkempt and tattooed huntress.
‘Like any quarry,’ she said without preamble, ‘it will leave a trail. Either here or in the immaterium, I can track it.’
Several of the officers made signs of warding.
She was a psyker, then, Areios realised. Or something akin to one. He recognised the Fenrisian markings on her trappings, runes he had seen before on a former brother of the Greyshields before he had departed the ranks of the Unnumbered to become a son of Russ. It felt a lifetime ago. He knew the Space Wolves and their kinsfolk had a unique perspective when it came to their harnessing of the warp.
The shipmistress of the Macharius put it boldly, lip curled in thinly veiled distaste. ‘A witch?’ she asked of Rostov.
‘Hold your tongue,’ snapped the huntress, ‘and meet my eye when you try to impugn me.’ Her hand moved instinctively to a belted hand-axe. ‘I am no witch. My people would say I have the wyrd about me. It is no threat to you, and without it you would be as blind as you are deaf!’
Rostov held up a hand before further retort could be made.
‘Whatever awaits us in the outer dark, it can traverse both materium and immaterium with ease. We will know when we are close. Ware your astropaths, your Navigators, they will feel it most keenly.’
‘Feel what?’ asked Areios, his voice a rumbling baritone in the crowded chamber. His thoughts had immediately gone to Maendaius.
All turned to him, but few met his gaze. The huntress was amongst those who did.
‘Maleficarum…’ she answered simply. ‘The whispers of Chaos.’
‘Be not mistaken,’ said Rostov, his tone making it clear that the council was at an end, ‘the enemy we seek has allied themselves with the Ruinous Powers. They will not fall easily or without bloodshed. I believe in the will of the Emperor, that He in His divine wisdom has brought about this chance. But it is just that, a chance, and a sliver of one at that.’ His face became grim. ‘I do not expect many of us to survive.’
Areios had heard enough. ‘You have a company of the Emperor’s Angels of Death, inquisitor,’ he said, and donned his helmet. The voice that emerged through it was a machine growl. ‘We shall see it done.’
Kesh’s footsteps echoed down the wide passage as she made her way through the vessel’s hold. It was dark and vast but cluttered with crates and trunks of varying sizes, all secured for transit.
They had taken ship aboard the Venerated Sword, abandoning Barren to its fate via massive ground-to-orbit landers. As far as she was aware, the entire 84th had left the warzone, but they were only one regiment amongst several departing the battle group for a new mission of which she knew almost nothing. Falden had held a briefing, with the emphasis on brief. His orders had been cursory, and she and the other Mordian officers had taken the news about their reposting in stoic silence. As was the Iron Guard’s way, and always would be.
A mission of vermilion-level secrecy, and therefore above her and even the colonel’s rank. How shaken he had appeared to not be the one in charge. A man like Falden got used to being the master of his own domain. Surrendering that agency could not have been easy for him. Their orders: reconnoitre for muster at Nadir, an Imperial outpost in a lesser-known subsector, and bound for the Stygius Gilt. All platoons without exception. Then they had been dismissed.
That had been the extent of it. Not much more than what had been on the reassignment letter she’d read back in the old barracks at Station Vulture. The colonel had left the briefing with a stiff jaw and the veins cording in his neck. Victory on Barren had all but been assured for Falden. All that remained would have been to collect the laurels and enjoy the prestige.
‘I’ve heard a rumour, ma’am,’ said Vosko, clasping a data-slate, her well-worn face reflected in the green glow of its screen as they passed by seemingly endless crates of materiel.
‘Is that so…’ said Kesh, squinting as she tried to make out the stencilled serial numbers. ‘Bring up that lumen, would you, Munser.’
Munser panned the lamp to where Kesh had indicated, and stark white light flooded the area.
‘An officer from Dagger Company overheard Falden talking to one of his advisors,’ Vosko went on, still scrolling down the data-slate’s screen display.
Kesh frowned. ‘Are you sure it’s in this quadrant?’ She leaned over to Munser and gestured to the paper he had tucked in his jacket pocket. He had healed well considering the injuries sustained, though he still moved with some stiffness. The medicae had been genuinely perplexed, but also relieved not to be consigning another Guardsman to the furnace. The lieutenant handed over the folded piece of paper for her to review.
‘I heard something about the Inquisition,’ said the adjutant.
Kesh paused, the paper still folded in her hand. ‘Oh?’ She shared a look with Munser, the natural shadows making his face appear more conspiratorial than it probably was.
‘Whatever this is, ma’am, it must be high level. Important. I wondered if…’
Kesh turned on her, suddenly stern. ‘Yes, go on, corporal, finish your sentence.’
‘Only that, perhaps it is His will, ma’am, that we are here. That you are here.’
Kesh wanted to chastise Vosko but couldn’t think of a reason beyond her own discomfort, and that didn’t seem good enough. So instead, she held the adjutant’s gaze and spoke plainly.
‘Whatever His will, we shall know it soon enough. For now, my will is that we find these damn crates,’ said Kesh and unfolded the paper.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Vosko, contrite.
The paper was a requisition order, stamped and facsimiled by the Departmento Munitorum. Req. #1995, signed off by Niova Ariadne, Quartermaster Senioris. Falden had sent Kesh to check on the supply drop they had secured from the Munitorum depot out of Barren, en route to Outpost Nadir. She checked the number against the one Vosko was looking for on her screen.
‘It’s here,’ she said after a few seconds, her tone triumphant. ‘Bay sixteen.’
Munser shone his lumen on the floor where the bay numbers had been machine-seared into the deck.
‘Should be just up ahead,’ murmured Kesh, and hoped to the Throne they wouldn’t see anyone else in here. Bad enough she had Vosko to deal with. Kesh had thought the adjutant had better decorum.
Ever since Barren, news had travelled around the regiment. More than once, Kesh had found an aquila pendant hanging over her bunk or an Imperial prayer book left on her footlocker. A novitiate priest had even asked her to bless him until she sent the scruffy-faced boy running with his cassock between his legs. But the more she fought against it, the more the idea nagged at her. That she had been chosen, whatever that meant. It terrified her. She had only ever wanted to be a soldier and now she was a captain, which was fine by her. She actually found she enjoyed command and liked the responsibility it brought. But let it remain mundane. Spiritual salvation should come from those who understood it. That was not Kesh.
