The Relentless Dead, page 19
His rotting foe came at him again, met by his drawn bayonet, which he thrust into its throat and out through the back of its neck. Continuing the motion, he pushed the zombie through the shattered windscreen. Vainly, it scrabbled for purchase on the truck’s front end. As the watchmaster withdrew his blade, it fell headfirst beneath the wheels.
He found the handle to wind down his window. The truck was running straight again and he could no longer hear fighting. ‘What’s your status back there?’ he yelled out into the night.
‘All good, watchmaster,’ came the reply. ‘No casualties.’
‘No more hostiles in sight,’ another Korpsman added, confirming the evidence of the watchmaster’s eyes. The road ahead, as far as he could see, was clear. They must have crossed the boundary of the witches’ spell by now. They had also left a handful of zombies behind them, crippled but still animated.
Our orders are to make haste to command headquarters. Once there, the watchmaster could vox Sanctuary and warn Batu of the threat. Her Attilans were more than capable of dealing with it. He turned to the engineer beside him.
‘Keep driving,’ he repeated.
‘You do know what you’re asking is impossible.’
Colonel Petrakov’s face was rigid. His moustache was a straight line across his tightened lips. Sitting stiffly in his chair behind his desk, he glared across at Graven, who had declined a seat.
‘I have made no formal request as yet.’
Petrakov cut across him. ‘The Sisters would never allow it.’
‘Certainly, they would raise a protest,’ agreed Graven, ‘but were I to speak to the Sister Superior, I might persuade her to–’
‘I will not allow it,’ stated Petrakov.
‘Colonel, I have shown you the maps that–’
For the third time, Graven was interrupted. He reined in his irritation. ‘You have outlined a theory to me – and yes, on the surface, I see the logic of it – but where is your proof?’
‘The evidence, I grant, is circumstantial.’
‘And nowhere near sufficient to justify such drastic action.’
‘The situation,’ said Graven doggedly, ‘demands that we consider it.’
Petrakov pushed himself to his feet, bringing their eyelines level. ‘I spoke with the witch hunter. Before he left here to join you and never returned. He shared certain suspicions with me. Suspicions about you, Colonel Graven.’
Now they were getting to it. ‘He feared me susceptible to the spectres’ whispers.’
Wrong-footed by the frank acknowledgement, Petrakov faltered.
Graven continued, ‘For that reason, I was instrumental in his death, if that suspicion drove him into battle alongside me against medical advice.’
‘You must see how that looks to me.’
‘On his deathbed, Idelax expressed his confidence in me, but I cannot prove that to you either. All I can do is add him to my tally, and fulfil the vow I swore to him, to see his work on Oleris III through to its conclusion.’
‘That is my purpose too,’ said Petrakov through gritted teeth.
‘Then understand that we must change our tactics,’ Graven urged him. ‘The witches are poised to unleash horrors upon this world that can scarcely be imagined. They have the advantage of home ground in the ossuary and can frustrate our progress almost endlessly. We must locate their coven’s heart.’
‘And strike at it. I agree.’
‘I believe that heart lies beneath the mausoleum. Or inside it.’
‘The Grand Mausoleum. Of the sainted Josefina.’
Petrakov turned his back pointedly on Graven. He stared out through his window for a minute. Rain pattered on the pane. Graven stood and waited patiently, knowing there was no more he could say at this juncture. The Vostroyan turned back to him, at last, his face overcast.
‘Impossible!’ he snapped.
They almost made it, but not quite.
The farm truck sputtered to a halt, still in sight of the Grand Mausoleum’s spires. The Krieg watchmaster and engineer climbed out. ‘I was afraid of this,’ the latter muttered. By the vehicle’s yellow light, he twisted off the fuel cap and poked a lasgun’s cleaning rod into the tank.
‘Out of promethium already?’ asked the watchmaster.
‘Barely had enough to start with, and we used it inefficiently. Too many sharp accelerations, shaking off those zombies. I might coax another mile out of it on fumes, if I can unclog the filter.’
The watchmaster nodded as if he understood, and left him to it. He turned to check on the rest of his squad on the cargo bed. He found himself looking up into a zombie’s dead white eyes.
Its head was mounted like a trophy on the spike of an entrenching shovel. The watchmaster made no comment.
Returning to the driver’s seat, the engineer attempted to restart the engine, but this time had no luck. With an asthmatic sigh of machine spirits, the truck seemed to sag in resignation. The watchmaster considered. ‘We can only be two and a half to three miles out of the compound. At quick time, we can make it in an hour. We’re unlikely to encounter more foes in this region.’
‘If we do,’ said a Korpsman, jumping down beside him, ‘we can add them to our collection, maybe hang them from the compound gates.’
The watchmaster looked up at the zombie’s head. ‘Get rid of that thing before we reach headquarters,’ he instructed. ‘It may be diseased.’
The Korpsman sounded disappointed. ‘Yes, watchmaster.’
They formed up in ranks of two and, beneath the glowering light of Oleris’ red moon rising, resumed their journey.
Artificial light seeped into Petrakov’s office, round the edges of bolted window shutters. His ceiling lumen-globe remained shut off. He sat in the deepening gloom with elbows on his desk and head in hands.
‘What is it the rumours say?’ His own words echoed in his memory. ‘That the veil between life and death is thin here?’
Graven, before leaving, had urged him to think about all he had said. Though making no such assurance, Petrakov found he could do little else. The Krieg colonel had been right before. That was the thought he couldn’t shake. What if he is right again? But this was not Graven’s decision. Petrakov would have to give the order, and its consequences would be on his head.
One of Graven’s assertions, at least, could hardly be denied. Oleris’ witches were growing in both power and audacity. Petrakov shuddered at the memory of spectres infiltrating his own compound, lurking in his soldiers’ shadows.
His presence had been requested in the medicae hut, on the promise that its newly arrived patients had brought vital information. With eerie synchronicity, they had risen from their beds, closing around him. Only quick thinking, and the sacrifice of two of the colonel’s aides, had got him out unscathed.
He had faced death before and was unafraid of it, but this – what the spectres had presumably planned for him – was unthinkable.
He had raised the alarm, and all soldiers in the compound had come running. The infiltrators had been besieged in the medicae hut, but when the structure had been stormed, they had set off prepared charges. Though their usurped bodies had been immolated, Petrakov had been chilled by the sight of ghostly shadows writhing in the smoke.
Could they be in here with him now?
The thought jolted him to his feet. He ought to have been more careful: spectres could have crept into the corners of the darkening room. Petrakov snapped on the light, relieved to find himself alone. He called for a scribe, who rushed in with dataslate and stylus. The colonel dictated a new standing order. Going forward, any person entering this compound, regardless of standing, would first be required to recite the Emperor’s Prayer and would be executed if unable to comply.
Petrakov dismissed the scribe, then called him back.
The thought occurred to him, A spectre in here with me would have explained my doubts. Knowing from where they arose, I might even have dispelled them! He wished he could seek Inquisitor Idelax’s counsel, but that was impossible now.
‘Take an instruction to the vox-operator,’ he said, ‘to contact the Grand Mausoleum and ask for the Sister Superior in person. Relay my apologies to her for the presumption, but assure her that the matter is most urgent.’
Spectres, he thought, now zombies too. The dead returned in body as in soul. No longer is that veil just thin, it must be positively fraying.
It had been a long day, and even the Krieg were weary as at last they tramped up to the command compound.
The last thing they needed was to be denied entry by a pair of Vostroyan sentries, who questioned them relentlessly. ‘Yours is the second Krieg squad to return here in an hour,’ one of them said, accusingly.
‘I can’t speak for any other,’ the watchmaster explained patiently, ‘but we are here on Colonel Graven’s orders.’
‘For what reason? Why are you not out fighting?’
‘We are here,’ the watchmaster repeated, ‘on Colonel Graven’s orders.’
They were made to say the Emperor’s Prayer, each of them in turn. When a Korpsman, throat dry because his water supply was exhausted, made a minor stumble over the word ‘venerate’, two lasguns snapped towards him.
‘Enough!’ the watchmaster bellowed.
Other Korpsmen had been reaching for their weapons, but now froze. To the wavering Vostroyans, the watchmaster said, ‘I passed your test.’ He had been the first to do so. ‘I vouch for the rest of my squad. So, take your fingers off those triggers, else I’ll see you court-martialled.’
‘With respect, watchmaster, we have our orders too.’
‘Caution is justified, but do not let it blossom into paranoia. Our enemies win when we mistrust each other. My Korpsman will say the prayer again.’
The sentries exchanged glances and agreed.
The Korpsman in question pulled himself to attention. He launched into a fresh recital, his scratchy voice the only sound in a world that otherwise stood still. Ten lines of prayer had never seemed so long before. As he intoned the final words – ‘for without Him we are nothing’ – the watchmaster was not the only soldier present to breathe a sigh of relief.
The ordeal was not yet over. Three more had to pass the test.
The tension further dissipated as each did so in turn, and the gates were opened for the Krieg, at last. The watchmaster ensured that they marched proudly through with heads held high.
They were greeted in the compound, not by Graven as expected, but by a Krieg commissar. She checked the watchmaster’s shoulder flashes. ‘Command squad?’ He confirmed this. He recognised this commissar, though masked, as his regiment had so few remaining. Her name was Skarangard.
As soon as the watchmaster had stood his Korpsmen down, she drew him to one side. ‘What is Graven planning?’ she demanded in her distinctive husky voice.
‘As yet, the colonel has not seen fit to brief me. I can only inform you of what we discovered underground.’
She waved aside the explanation. ‘I read the reports. I know about the zombies – and the Tallyman, though only one man has seen that.’
‘That is my understanding too.’
‘What I need to know is why Graven instructed all Krieg squads to pull out of the ossuary tunnels and regroup around the mausoleum.’
‘You know more than I do, sir.’ The farm truck had had no vox-unit.
‘We were close by and heard the order first-hand as we set up camp for the night. I chose to come here straight away. Colonel Graven has spoken to no commissar in weeks.’
‘You suspect he’s hiding something?’ the watchmaster asked sharply.
‘Do you?’ Skarangard asked, equally so.
‘Where is he?’
‘Bedded down in the mess hall, having deferred my request to meet. Watchmaster, I’ve served for over three years with this regiment. I’m resigned to the fact that my primary role is to represent the Krieg to otherworlders. To do that, I must know what you – and your commander in particular – are thinking.’
‘Surely he has earned our trust?’ the watchmaster prevaricated.
‘My trust,’ said Skarangard, ‘is not the issue, as you must realise by now. I am waiting for a chance to speak with Colonel Petrakov. I had hoped you might give me something to say to him.’
‘Commissar, please, delay that meeting. I will speak to the colonel, as soon as he awakes, and apprise him of your concerns.’
Skarangard considered, then nodded. Marching away, she barked over her shoulder, ‘As soon as he awakes!’
In the mess hall, the new arrivals laid out bedrolls alongside those of Skarangard’s squad, two of whom stood on watch. The Korpsman who had travelled on the flyer was present, asleep. The door to the next room was ajar, and while only darkness could be seen within, deep, steady breathing could be heard.
The watchmaster couldn’t be sure, but it sounded to him like Graven was very much awake.
Sister Superior Serafina’s boots rang off the mausoleum’s tiled floor.
She was in a foul mood, having been disturbed at prayer, which meant she would have to begin her litanies again. For Colonel Petrakov’s sake, he had better have good cause.
The ever-scowling Sister Elvana marched two steps behind her. Both were decorated veterans of the Second Tyrannic War. They had fought in defence of the cathedral on Okassis, witnessed the heroic last stand of Canoness Praxades. Serafina felt affronted that so many of their Order had since perished on the blighted world of Armageddon, and that she had not been with them.
Her squad had not seen battle in what felt like an age. Their tour of duty on Oleris was to have lasted three years, but they had been here twice that long. Of course, their presence served a holy purpose. Still, sometimes she felt they had been forgotten. Until now, when we might be called to battle after all. The thought was easily dismissed. Three Astra Militarum regiments had to be sufficient to deal with a ragtag band of heretics.
This late, the mausoleum’s main chamber was unoccupied. As Serafina and Elvana crossed it, the prayers of the Sisters left in the chapel followed them. Their susurrations echoed from the vaulted ceiling, around the high galleries, calming the Sister Superior’s ire.
Saint Josefina bathed her in her ever-benevolent gaze.
The saint’s marble statue crowned her sealed stone crypt. The rougher-hewn effigies of plague victims clustered about her, prostrated on the stepped sides of the edifice, reaching up to her in supplication. Josefina, on one knee, reached down, ministering to them. Candles had been hung behind her so that, when viewed from ahead, soft golden light outlined her.
An honour guard of ten Sisters served here, along with sundry aides and servitors who maintained the mausoleum, keeping its candles lit and its surfaces dust-free. One such aide Serafina found in the small comms room, little more than a cubicle in truth. She leapt to her feet as the Battle Sisters entered, bowing her head in reverence. Dismissing her, the Sister Superior took her place at the vox-caster, Elvana looming over her.
‘What is it, Colonel Petrakov?’ she asked crisply.
He made the usual apologies for taking up her time, which only wasted more of it. He spoke of grave developments since last they had conversed. He read to her reports of bodies rising from the earth and Traitor Space Marines, and this was where he earned her full attention. She was mollified to learn that the threat had been contained – if only, Petrakov warned, for the present.
Then he made a suggestion. He ensured that Serafina knew it did not come from him and had not his approval. When first he mentioned Colonel Graven’s name, she felt quite well disposed towards it. That soon changed.
‘I will not allow it!’ the Sister Superior roared.
‘I expected that would be your decision,’ Petrakov said, ‘but you understand I had to ask.’
‘You “had to ask” if you might desecrate a holy shrine?’
‘Only under the suspicion that such may already have occurred.’
‘You ask my leave to sunder Saint Josefina’s crypt, which for five hundred years has stood inviolate? To disturb her sacred remains?’
For a short time, the only sound was a static crackle over the vox-link.
Then Petrakov ventured, ‘Sister Superior.’ Had he seen Elvana’s face, like thunder, he would have held his tongue. ‘Forgive me, but did you not yourself speak of a “nocturnal presence”?’
She shook herself. ‘Phantasms, that is all.’
‘I assume, by that, you mean the things we have been calling spectres.’
‘Some may have crept in through the shadows in the mausoleum’s corners. Finding no purchase in the minds of any here, they slunk away. None have been detected in days. Increasing the frequency and volume of our prayers has warded us against them. And let me assure you, Colonel Petrakov, that had any tried to violate the crypt itself, whatever blackened tatters of their souls they still possess would have burnt in its consecrated soil.’
Accepting her emphatic proclamation, the Vostroyan apologised again and broke off the connection. Serafina remained seated, brooding, long enough that Sister Elvana felt compelled to prompt her: ‘Sister Superior?’
‘I am disturbed by these developments,’ she confessed.
‘You don’t imagine there is truth in Petrakov’s suspicions?’
‘God-Emperor, no! As if the crypt, our sacred charge, could be so violated and not one of us aware of it.’
‘As if.’
‘Still, I wonder if it may be time to apprise the Palatine of our situation.’ Serafina shook her head. ‘No. No, Petrakov can send for reinforcements if needs be. It is his responsibility to keep spectres, zombies, Tallymen and witches from our doors, and even should he fail–’
‘God-Emperor forbid it,’ Elvana interjected.
‘–then the worshippers of Chaos, usurpers of death itself, will find that, with our saint to guide us, we are more than ready for them!’
