Hand Of Abaddon, page 6
A landing pad came into view, still relatively far off across the Mare Vaporum, the jagged walls of the Stevinus crater rising up around it to form a natural barrier to approaches from the lunar surface.
Rostov prepared himself. He cinched the clasps on his armour, secured his weapons belt. After a few moments of gentle shuddering, the ship touched down on the landing pad and Rostov stood and approached the casket. A second’s hesitation and he took it, and carried it one-handed out of the hold as the ramp lowered, admitting him to Luna.
Two guards met him at the edge of the gang ramp clad in dull carapace the colour of charcoal. They held heavy-gauge lasguns across their chests, muzzles aimed downwards, and exercised military trigger discipline. Visored helmets obscured their faces and they spoke through rebreather masks. Despite the fact that this region of Luna benefited from artificial gravity and atmosphere, the regolith was still an irritant, making filtration necessary.
‘Welcome to Sylem, Inquisitor Rostov,’ the first guard said in a cold monotone. ‘The lord inquisitor is expecting you.’
Rostov strode past them brusquely, refusing the meek offer of refreshment from a helot cowed behind the hulking guards in black, and made for a fortified and well-defended bridge. Manned weapon emplacements watched the approach and a garrison tower squatted at the far end, two guards patrolling its battlement.
A stone keep stood on the other side, its high walls sloped and decked with gun slits. Three hexagonal turrets held fixed heavy bolter emplacements, and a Deathstrike missile array stood dormant but ready. More of an outpost than a proper Inquisitorial fortress, it served the needs of the Imperium in keeping watch over its lunar domains and happened to be the current habitation of his conclave master.
Through a gate overlooked by two more guards, he walked briskly on through a narrow and high-walled gallery. Murder slits in the canted ceiling betrayed its true purpose, a kill-box for any hostile enemy seeking to force ingress through the main entrance. Beyond the gallery, the interior opened out into a circular lobby, its cardinal points punctuated by statues of dour saints and soldiers. He recognised the well-noted puritan Sebastian Thor amongst the masoned luminaries: founder and promulgator of the Thorian creed, the belief in the concept of a Divine Avatar and the eventual rebirth of the Emperor into an unbroken and living host.
Passing beneath the severe regard of these stone effigies of order, Rostov climbed a long stairway to an upper gallery and through there to a sparsely decorated solarium, where a figure swathed in shadows waited.
‘Does it not terrify you,’ said the figure, her voice a little cracked with age but no less formidable, ‘the vastness of it all?’ She had her back to him, stargazing through a massive circular aperture. Bulk trawlers and mass-transit craft plied the unfathomable black, bound for Terran shipping lanes. ‘Such an expansive galaxy and yet our eye needed on every crack, every forgotten hollow and dark alley on every Throne-forsaken world…’
Rostov stepped forward, the casket clutched in a gloved hand. Low lamplight gave the room an undeniably sepulchral mood.
‘I see only darkness.’
‘Precisely my point.’
He followed his master’s eye as it averted from the stars to travel downwards towards the lunar plain. A hundred miles or so distant, he discerned the outline of the forbidding citadel that had been on Luna since the earliest days of the empire, once forgotten but renewed in this bleak era that presaged humankind’s extinction. It stood out, stark and sharp like a lance. A grim place whose ominous denizens he had no desire to meet.
Somnus.
It meant ‘sleep’, or perhaps to some, ‘silence’.
The fact his master regarded it through the great aperture boded ill.
‘So, you have news then, I take it.’ She took her attention from the endless void outside but did not face him. It was as if she regarded her own reflection instead. Rostov noticed her hat set aside on a low table, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room. Her crossbow hung off a nearby chair arm, and she was wearing her armour.
‘Expecting trouble?’ he ventured.
Inquisitor Greyfax turned then, bestowing a cunning smile on Rostov that he at once found unsettling and reassuring. He expected she deliberately crafted it that way. There was little that Katarinya Greyfax did that was not carefully considered and crafted.
Although they were from different ordos, the Inquisition went wherever it was needed, and as an inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus, Greyfax had a particular interest in the Hand, given the likelihood of psychic or sorcerous involvement.
‘I have learned many things in my years,’ she said, stepping more clearly into the chamber’s wan light, her gilded armour shining. ‘Those that came before I was incarcerated in that monster’s vault and those after, that I now live out. One fact remains true, Leonid, that as an inquisitor one should always expect trouble.’
Rostov gave a shallow bow of the head, her words sage as ever.
‘Indeed, my lord.’
Greyfax had an intriguing history, one whose vicissitudes saw her the prisoner of an ancient creature, an enemy of the Imperium. Though a matter of some quiet conjecture, it was believed that there she had stayed, stasis frozen for many years until fate, and perhaps the Emperor’s grace, saw her freed – an anachronism, believed centuries dead and returned to the galaxy in perhaps its direst hour.
A faint glint entered her eyes, piercing as a rapier, and Rostov detected the slightest hint of amusement. Am I so easy to read? he wondered.
He held out the casket in one hand, both purity-sealed and bio-locked. The skull’s rictus grinned almost mockingly.
‘With your sanction once more…’ he invited.
Greyfax raised an eyebrow, regarding the object as if it were an enemy she was assessing. Descending a set of steps from the raised dais in front of the great aperture, a black cloak sweeping behind her, she muttered, ‘Out.’
Guards, hidden from Rostov’s sight until that moment, quietly departed. Armed with sabres and entirely clad in midnight-black war plate, these were a cut above the highly trained operatives outside the chamber and upon the walls.
‘Alone at last…’ Greyfax said with a smile, and for a moment Rostov struggled to parse her meaning. He suspected this was deliberate too. ‘Hand it over then,’ she said, as she came to within a pace of the inquisitor. ‘You won’t get back into that thing without this first.’ She brandished an obscenely sharp knife, the hilt embossed with an Inquisitorial sigil.
Rostov did as he was told, and Greyfax pricked her finger with the knife tip. At the merest touch of her blood, the skull that sealed the casket shut unclenched its jaw. A hiss of escaping pressure briefly filled the room and through a dispersing stasis cloud, the pair of scrolls he had borrowed from the librarium were revealed.
Gingerly it seemed to Rostov, Greyfax took both pieces of parchment and rolled them out on a table, pushing aside the galactic maps and missives currently occupying it. She read, and in the silence that followed, Rostov held his breath.
‘And you’re sure about this?’ Her eyes narrowed. Something like concern flickered in them, the mildest tremor of a nerve in her neck. A dab of the tongue moistened her lips.
Rostov cleared his throat.
‘Certain. A reality-cutting knife, primordial in design. It was one of the shards.’
Greyfax looked on, but Rostov knew she had already assimilated everything on the scroll. She let out a long exhalation.
‘Holy Throne… You think this is what they’re looking for?’
‘I am certain of that too. The Hand, whoever it is, wants this artefact. They are actively seeking it. A piece of it was seen on Kamidar, we have the reports of the Black Templars to thank for that. Alas, I have been unable to track them down – or the fragment of the artefact. I know of at least one more piece in the Archenemy’s possession on Srinagar. The discovery of a third, via coded astropathic message sent by Interrogator Il Moro, was received by Domus Tower. It and his whereabouts are unknown.’ He paused, letting the magnitude of his words sink in. ‘I do not believe these events to be unrelated.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Greyfax. ‘It is what we feared then.’ She looked ashen, a breath caught in her throat.
Rostov felt it too, the fear that they had been trained to suppress, reaching up from the pit of his stomach. The old, mortal frailty they were supposed to be inured to when they had been told the secrets of the universe, and then stared into the abyss without blinking. Inquisitors were not meant to balk at anything. But this… This was the physical representation of the primordial enemy; this was old corruption, a piece of the Heresy War. If the myths were true, a weapon like that… Throne, it could have repercussions for the entire Imperium.
‘Yes…’ Rostov’s voice was almost a rasp, ‘They are attempting to remake the Anathame. The mythic blade that pierced Horus’ side.’
Greyfax rolled up the scrolls, lingering for a few seconds on the artistic rendering of the knife, a cruel and ugly thing from an elder age, and returned them to the casket. A second prick with her own knife and her blood resealed it.
‘You know its provenance?’
‘Only what I have read,’ said Rostov, regaining his composure, ‘and even that comes across more like myth than fact.’
‘There are only myths about such things, Leonid.’
That was true enough but it didn’t make them any less unsettling, and he saw his concern echoed in Greyfax’s eyes.
‘That it has the power to slay a god, if you believe in such things.’
She quirked an eyebrow at him. ‘If you believe…?’
‘I have heard the returned primarch be referred to thusly,’ he replied, letting the implication hang in the air like a noose. ‘Regardless, if this is the Hand’s plan then this agent must be found and stopped. At any cost. I fear for the outcome and its impact on the Imperium if we do not. I fought a sorcerer on Srinagar that claimed it was the Hand, and I believe I have seen visions of a second individual also claiming this title. I cannot yet parse the truth of it, but I was recently contacted by one of my agents, a rogue trader, who has a traitor in his custody believed to be a servant of the Hand. Or perhaps even something more.’
‘You do not need my permission to investigate.’
‘I already plan to, the synchronicity of these events is too compelling. But that’s not what I need.’
‘Then what do you need, Leonid?’
‘An army. To hunt the Hand and bring it down. End this threat before it becomes too great to stop.’
She laughed, and it was an altogether unpleasant sound.
‘I can’t give you that, Leonid.’ She stepped away from the table and returned to the dais. At her unspoken request, Rostov joined her.
‘Much is being asked of the crusade,’ she said, once he was standing by her side. ‘It is stretched in every conceivable direction, and even this is only to hold on to the gains we have made, let alone any attempt to push out further. Half the galaxy is enshrouded by darkness, lost to us through the hell of the Rift, the other teeters on the brink.’
‘Even now?’ Rostov hated the ignorance in his voice, but he hadn’t realised it was that bad.
‘Even now,’ Greyfax confirmed. ‘Nachmund remains heavily contested, our only sure route through to Imperium Nihilus, and whilst the primarch’s generals push for the Gauntlet, it is far from certain that we will break through. And yet our efforts cannot lessen, for to do so invites the enemy to attack from a second front.’ She shook her head ruefully. ‘With Cadia and the Cadian Gate gone, we are sorely pressed. A bulwark like that is not easily replaced.’
‘What of the Anaxian Line?’
A coterie of redoubt worlds stood in chain corewards of the collapsed Cadian Gate. They had been raised as a secondary defensive border against aggression from enemy forces amassing out of Cadia’s ashes, providing vital resupply and reinforcement to the fleets trying to staunch the advance of the Warmaster’s armies there, and dubbed the ‘Anaxian Line’.
‘It holds,’ said Greyfax. ‘For now. Barren is under attack, and without its materiel reserves for the other worlds in the chain…’ She sucked the air through her teeth. ‘Well, our stalwart rear supply lines would become much less reliable, shall we say. Kamidar still reels in the aftermath of civil war. And Garrovire is being fought over as we speak. The Militarum strategos regard Garrovire as a lynchpin – without it the entire enterprise could be in jeopardy. Only Helsvorn, Aggrandis and Phykus hold with any surety. A thin strand of wire holds our combined armies together by a most tenuous thread and shivers under this current tension.’
‘I need but a few regiments. If my ally has a true lead, it could prove significant and with the apprehension of the Hand, its further plans revealed under excoriation, is it not worth the effort for such a prize? Surely something could be spared? There must be reserves within the fleets…’
‘There are none,’ Greyfax stated emphatically. ‘Another muster is being raised with any and all reserve forces joining it. A second passage through the Great Rift has been discovered at the Attilan Gate. Reports claim it is sizeable, though as to its stability I cannot attest. I will send you the relevant information to fill any gaps.’
Rostov nodded his thanks.
She gave him a side glance. ‘So, you see, there are no regiments to send. Nothing remaining. Not for a mission without clear objective.’
‘The Hand is the objective.’
‘And where does it reside? You do not even know who it is, let alone where.’
‘A matter I plan to resolve. And then with a few ships, troops at my disposal, I could–’
‘It cannot be done. I am sorry, Leonid.’
‘Then I am alone in this.’
‘Oh, I know you have friends, Leonid.’
‘They are unfortunately few. I had hoped for the help of the ordos and your authority with it.’
The slight curl at the edge of Greyfax’s lips suggested a smile. Rostov decided he didn’t like it in the least.
‘I did not say I couldn’t help.’
Rostov frowned, confused.
‘I can lend you a few men from the fortress here, but I can’t give you an army,’ she said, and he followed her gaze until it alighted on the Somnus Citadel. ‘I can, however, also give you an ally.’
Chapter Seven
old weapons
silenced
a way to serve
In truth, the Silent Sisterhood had been blessed with few allies. In the aftermath of the Great Heresy War, the Order fell into severe decline as its followers became pariahs in both name, function and regard. As with many longstanding institutions that could be deemed a ‘necessary evil’, the Silent Sisterhood were marginalised when they became less politic to deploy, and their ranks were culled.
During those days Somnus became a near-empty ruin, haunted by a handful of caretakers, and gratefully forgotten by the Imperium, a sword left to rust in its scabbard. That had changed in the aftermath of the Great Rift and the calamity that followed. Somnus was rebuilt on the orders of the primarch himself, its garrison and prior function as a military outpost restored.
Much of its millennia-long neglect remained, however. The old fortress walls bore unsealed cracks, several of its towers still partially ruined. Only the orbital docking spikes for the Black Ships remained in a state of good repair, for the stewardship of these crucial vessels was the remaining duty required of the Silent Sisterhood after their disbanding and before the Guilliman reformation.
Old weapons, it seemed, were back in fashion again.
A blunted sword hastily sharpened will as likely cut its bearer as its enemy, thought Syreniel as she trod the dilapidated halls of the citadel, her great blade sheathed upon her back, her armour clinking dully with her booted footsteps.
Despite its recent resurgence, it was a haunted place of lonely corridors and stilled chambers lit by brazier flame. A mausoleum to a dead culture, ineffectively resurrected. For Syreniel, the return to Somnus held an especial dread that had nothing in common with the Imperium’s fickle favour.
She saw one of her Order, the first since entering the citadel, a Knight-Centura of the Argent Lynx cadre, but found no warmth in her Sister’s iron gaze. If anything, her eyes hardened to the edge of hostility as she regarded the silver-armoured Vigilator and put herself in Syreniel’s path.
Clad in Vratine armour herself and wielding a power axe, a crimson half-cloak hanging over her left shoulder, she looked every inch the formidable sentry.
The corridor was narrow, the dark stone seeming to press in; there would be no moving around her.
I seek the Knight Abyssal, Syreniel signed, her thoughtmark rusty on account of how little she had used it in recent months, and resisting the urge to meet this challenge with hostility of her own.
The other Sister hesitated before replying, as if gauging whether or not Syreniel was worthy of response. For a few seconds, crackling flame was the only sound. Her hand movements were swift, complicated, as if trying to outwit her comrade. It took Syreniel a few moments to discern their meaning.
You carry a penitent’s mark, the other Sister signed, your plume shorn and eyes tarred to black.
Nothing in this held a question. Purely accusation, a judge preparing to give sentence.
I seek the Knight Abyssal, Syreniel repeated, unwilling to be baited. Either tell me where she is or stand aside. My coming is known to her.
The gorget the other Sister wore over her mouth shifted up like a portcullis with her imperious scowl. It is known… A snarl in the eyes with this, the movements clipped and sharp. Her gauntlets rasped as they scraped against one another like a sword angrily leaving its sheath.
