‘Is there a problem, sir?’

  Colonel Graven shook himself. ‘I thought I heard… But it was nothing. A trick of the wind, no more.’

  III

  The afternoon was growing late as they approached the second hamlet on Inquisitor Idelax’s list. At first sight, this one too appeared deserted.

  Colonel Graven fretted. The last thing he wanted was to have to report to Petrakov that his kill team had only wasted time.

  Then, beside him, his watchmaster stiffened – ‘Sir!’ – and Graven too glimpsed shapes flitting between the huddled buildings, heard the slamming of a door, saw a shutter being hastily closed.

  He tapped his driver’s shoulder and the Chimera grumbled to a halt. The watchmaster was ready on the trigger of its multi-laser. Graven stood up in the turret. He bellowed, ‘Show yourselves, in the name of the Emperor!’

  A muzzle flashed in an upstairs window. He ducked as a burst of autogun fire pinged off the armour plating by his head.

  ‘Return fire, sir?’ the watchmaster asked.

  ‘Not yet.’ Graven waited for more shots, but silence had settled once again, reminding him of the stillness of the other hamlet. Cautiously, he raised his head. ‘I am Colonel Graven of the Astra Militarum. I repeat, show yourselves. No faithful citizen need fear us.’

  A minute passed, then more, with no response of any kind.

  Then Graven heard a door unlatching, boots squelching in the mud.

  Three ragged, dirty workers approached the Chimera, trembling with nerves. Graven clambered down to meet them. Their empty hands were raised before them, so he kept his weapons sheathed. Ten feet from the delegation, he signalled it to halt.

  The foremost worker was an elderly man with leathern skin and a straggly grey beard. ‘Please, sir,’ he croaked, ‘is it true? Has He sent you in answer to our prayers?’

  ‘That depends,’ said Graven. ‘Who fired on us?’

  ‘Forgive her,’ the old man entreated. ‘She is young and was afraid, and with all we have seen and heard lately, and when she saw your fearsome mask…’

  ‘This is Settlement One-Three-Dash-Seven-Beta?’

  ‘As the priests label it, yessir. To us, it is just home.’

  ‘A grave worker voxed the Ecclesiarchal Tower,’ said Graven. ‘He claimed to have witnessed witchcraft, but was cut off before he could elaborate.’

  The old man frowned. ‘Yes, sir, but that was many moons ago.’

  ‘What is your situation? What has made you so afraid?’

  ‘The witch hunter didn’t tell you?’

  Graven seized on the reference. ‘Idelax made it here?’

  ‘Is that not why you…? It’s the spectres, sir. The witch hunter saw them for himself. The spectres haunt us in the night. The spirits of the immaterium, the dead returned with vengeance in their darkened souls. They blame us, blame the living, for their tragic plight, and they plan to torment us unto death.’

  ‘When did the witch hunter come here?’ asked Graven.

  ‘It must’ve been a moon ago now, sir.’

  ‘Tell me all you remember.’

  He was sitting on a cushioned chair in the main room of a single-storey shack. Pails were arranged about the floor to catch rain from the leaky roof. His watchmaster sat on a similar chair beside him, while workers craned about them. A young boy hid behind his mother’s legs, clutching at her skirts.

  Their elderly spokesman – he had given his name as Rayoul – perched on a three-legged stool across from his distinguished visitors. ‘The spectres had bedevilled us for many moons by then,’ he said. ‘We’d sent word to the tower, but given up hope that the priests…’ He checked himself.

  ‘Describe them to me, these “spectres”.’

  ‘I haven’t the words.’

  ‘As best you can.’

  ‘To begin with, we felt them merely as a presence. We heard their moans on the wind, glimpsed them out of the corners of our eyes. We weren’t sure they were even real. At morning prayer, we pleaded for the strength to resist their whispered lies, see only what was true.’

  ‘Such creatures prey on the weak-minded,’ the colonel agreed.

  ‘They only grew stronger. Night after night, the screams of the tortured woke us, till one night…’ The old man shuddered. ‘The screams came from Torven’s hut, my nephew. His face was pale, his eyes staring.’

  Graven almost wished he had brought a commissar with him. One might have had something to say. Impatiently, he awaited more information.

  ‘His goodwife had seen the spectre, right there in their room. She saw right through it, to the wall behind it, as it hovered over him, as if it were suckling on his very soul.’

  ‘He was dead?’

  Rayoul’s choked sob confirmed it.

  ‘And the spectre?’

  ‘Fled through the wall as soon as light was shed upon it.’

  ‘May I speak with your nephew’s wife?’ asked Graven.

  Rayoul shook his head. ‘She fled too, with the sunrise, as did others, and more have left us since. You’ve seen how few of us remain – fewer than half of us. We felt that, if we ran, they’d only follow. So, we kept up our duties and prayed and slept in shifts, till the day the witch hunter arrived.’

  ‘Inquisitor Idelax?’

  ‘Yessir, I think that was the name.’

  ‘You said he saw the spectres too?’

  Graven never got his answer. From outside the hut, he heard a scuffle, angry shouts and the distinctive crack of a Lucius-pattern Type XIV heavy lasgun. He snatched his pistol from its holster as he leapt to his feet. He suspected treachery, but the workers in the room seemed only startled and afraid.

  He pushed past them to the door, his watchmaster on his heels, as a second shot and then a third rang out.

  Outside, Graven sized up the situation in an instant.

  A worker lay dead at the feet of two Korpsmen, whose weapons were drawn. Crowding around them were eight or nine workers with mutinous expressions, and one on her knees, bleeding from her temple, an autogun beside her in the mud. There was one more gun among them and a shovel raised in threat.

  The Korpsmen were yelling orders as their comrades converged upon the scene, the colonel and watchmaster among them. The workers lost their nerve but not their anger. Weapons dropped, but voices were still raised. Graven’s voice rang clear above them. ‘I will shoot the next person to speak out of turn!’ That quietened the workers, so he turned to his Korpsmen. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Colonel, he cursed the Emperor’s name.’

  ‘You lie!’ a worker cried. ‘Malek was devout – he would never…’ His voice trailed off as Graven trained his laspistol upon him.

  He held the weapon levelled for a second. Then, his point made, he lowered it and asked, ‘You were present? You heard?’

  ‘I heard nothing. Nothing was said,’ the worker spat.

  ‘The curse was muttered,’ said the Korpsman, ‘not intended to be heard, but I was by the heretic and heard it clear as day.’

  ‘So you shot him?’

  The new voice was Rayoul’s. He and others from the shack had joined the scene, as had workers from elsewhere across the hamlet, more farm tools and one more autogun among them. A small assemblage threatened to grow into a mob.

  ‘I challenged him,’ the Korpsman said, answering the old man’s question. ‘He spat at me. He drew back his fist to punch me.’

  His claim sparked howls of protest. ‘They barged into Malek’s hut and trashed it for no reason!’ someone shouted.

  ‘He stood up to them, so they killed him!’

  ‘Hit his sister with a rifle butt when she tried to help him!’

  ‘They tell us they’re soldiers of the Emperor, but how can we trust them when they hide their faces?’

  The crowd was regaining its confidence with numbers. Korpsmen were reaching for their weapons. Graven had to defuse the situation. Looking for a way, he saw what looked like ink through a las beam hole in the dead worker’s smock. He stepped up to the body and crouched by it.

  Someone shrieked, ‘What’s he doing? Stop him!’

  Graven tore the smock open, exposing an ugly tattoo across a burn-marked chest. He had guessed correctly. The eight-pointed star of Chaos. It was lopsided, likely self-inflicted. No further words were necessary. Around him he heard stifled gasps and sobs. The crowd’s defiance had instantly deflated. Already, some on its outskirts were slinking away.

  One who stayed was the worker who had called a Korpsman a liar. His callused hands trembled as they clutched a cloth cap to his chest. ‘Colonel, sir, I swear I didn’t know. None of us knew. He fooled us all.’

  The woman with the cut head scrambled to her feet, agreeing: ‘The traitor did his work and said his prayers. How could we know?’

  ‘How indeed?’ the Krieg watchmaster rumbled.

  A curt nod from Graven dismissed the workers, and they scurried away in relief. He didn’t yet know if he believed them. Their regret had seemed genuine enough, but the Krieg distrusted displays of emotion. Emotions were irrational by nature and often used to manipulate. He based his decisions on hard facts, of which he still had few.

  He sent his Korpsmen to continue their search of the hamlet. He doubted they would meet more resistance. Rayoul said his people would see to the body’s disposal, this being their calling after all. They wouldn’t bury it, though. With a disdainful curl of his lip, he said the body would be burnt to keep its taint from spreading.

  Graven approved.

  Rayoul said, ‘Sir, forgive us, please. We truly did not know.’

  ‘Tell me Malek was the first,’ said Graven shrewdly. They were back in the leaky shack, but this time he chose to stand. He glowered down at Rayoul, balanced on his uncomfortable stool.

  The old man dropped his gaze in shame. ‘There have been others.’

  ‘You said nothing of witches here.’

  ‘I thought… We believed they had been purged.’

  ‘By Inquisitor Idelax?’

  ‘Sir, we know we have been blind, but these were our neighbours, co-workers, friends and family, and once they were faithful, I’d swear to it – they all were. It must’ve been the spectres, sir. You don’t know how their voices worm their way into your head. They make you think dreadful thoughts.’

  ‘How many of you?’ Graven demanded.

  ‘Four, before Malek. One, young Lydda, when she was exposed, she threw green fire from her hands and tried to run, but she was gunned down in her tracks. The others…’ Rayoul swallowed.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The witch hunter marched them out at dawn, weighted down by chains. Sir, we know there was no other way. Each spat and cursed His holy name before the axe fell on them. He is merciful and just, praise be to Him.’

  Dutifully, Rayoul’s fellows murmured, ‘Praise be to Him.’

  One spoke up: ‘Tell him. Tell him about the other one.’

  The old man, nodding, looked up at Graven again. ‘The fifth witch, sir.’

  ‘You told me there were four.’

  ‘Four among us, I said. One was shot, three chained in the old barn overnight. The fifth was set to guard them, but during the night he… he turned on his partner. He stabbed him in the back.’

  ‘Be sure you speak the truth,’ Graven warned him.

  ‘I do, sir.’ Rayoul met the colonel’s shuttered glare with confidence. ‘The fifth witch discovered by the witch hunter was one of his own attendants.’

  ‘Impossible!’ the Krieg watchmaster barked, and Graven was inclined to agree with him. The workers around them, however, insisted otherwise.

  ‘His victim died, but not before he could raise the alarm. The traitor went to free his fellow witches. I never saw myself, but them that did say the witch hunter marched into the old barn after him. They say he wielded a burning whip, and that green fire and red flashed through the timbers.’

  ‘It’s true, but the flames never caught,’ an older woman said.

  ‘When the witch hunter came out again, he was holding the traitor’s severed head, which he cast into the mud. I’d show you the body, sir.’

  ‘But you burnt it,’ the colonel guessed.

  ‘So you see, sir,’ said Rayoul, ‘we have cause to beware of strangers. It could as well have been your soldier as our neighbour who’d been touched by–’

  ‘It could not,’ the watchmaster snapped.

  ‘Be assured,’ said Graven stiffly, ‘that no Death Korpsman would ever succumb to such corruption.’

  ‘As you say, Colonel Graven, sir,’ the old man deferred, but he sounded less than convinced.

  ‘The inquisitor left here, I assume?’

  ‘Three mornings after he came, in his brass-plated tank, prayers blaring through its speakers. He said his work was done. His attendants had been through our homes. He’d checked every one of us for marks and found us clean.’

  ‘Including Malek, I presume,’ Graven said.

  ‘He said the traitors brought the spectres to us, so they’d not be back again, even though… Pardon the impertinence, sir, but it seemed to us the spectres made the traitors, not the other way around.’

  ‘Did he tell you where he was headed?’

  ‘No, sir, not in my hearing, but he travelled eastward, if it helps you.’

  Still following his list, thought Graven.

  ‘He said there’d been other calls from other hamlets, tormented like ours. More traitors, more witches to be rooted out and dealt with.’

  The watchmaster asked, ‘And your spectres?’

  ‘For a few days, the next few blessed nights, it seemed the witch hunter had been right.’ Rayoul released a heavy sigh. ‘Until today. Until Malek. Maybe he was the only one we missed. Maybe now it can finally be over.’

  The Krieg laid down their bedrolls in the hamlet’s largest building, the old barn mentioned by Rayoul. It was hardly secure, its timbers rotting, but as a Korpsman remarked wryly, what mattered that against a reputedly intangible foe?

  The barn was in use as a storehouse, grain sacks stacked against one wall. More empty sacks than full. Graven recalled what Petrakov had told him, that no crop had grown on this world since its plague. Therefore, food had to be imported and distributed by archdeacons in the tower. The captive tower.

  The workers here knew little of that yet, only that supplies were overdue. The colonel had deflected all questions on the subject, but certainly Rayoul had been relieved when informed that his visitors could sustain themselves. There was plenty of water – troughs and barrels brimmed over – to replenish their reserves.

  He asked his watchmaster, ‘Do you believe their story?’

  ‘That a nest of traitors could have hidden in plain sight in a settlement this size? Possible, but doubtful.’

  ‘Highly doubtful,’ agreed Graven.

  ‘That a witch hunter’s acolyte could have been persuaded to their side?’

  ‘Yes, even more so.’

  The watchmaster ventured, ‘Unless this world’s dark forces have already grown so powerful…’ He hesitated to expand upon that thought.

  Graven thought about what they had seen that morning. A hamlet like this one, abandoned. A thorough search had turned up nothing. No sign of any struggle. No evidence of misdeeds of any kind. No bodies, though perhaps they had been buried. No clue as to what had happened there, but the odour of death had played about his nostrils, a faint but only too familiar stink.

  ‘At least we can be sure the witch hunter came this far,’ his comrade said.

  ‘Less certain that he made it further,’ Graven growled.

  ‘The acolyte, perhaps, was just a novice.’

  ‘Perhaps, and either way not Krieg-born. Our people know the cost of treachery too well. We know the very worst of what can happen when a single soul strays from the Emperor’s light.’

  The two men stood in pensive silence. Graven thought about the radiation-scarred surface of his home world, the barren, hellish landscape in which he had been raised and trained. The tragic result of one man’s unthinking treachery. Before he knew it, however, his mind had drifted and he found himself picturing another world entirely, reliving a fresher trauma.

  He asked his watchmaster, ‘Do you ever wonder why we were chosen to survive when–’ He checked himself. He was a colonel now, a commanding officer. To talk to a subordinate this way was inappropriate. ‘Belay that,’ he said gruffly.

  His squad’s final four members had entered the barn, reporting to him. One pair had searched their quadrant, finding nothing to concern them. The other had voxed the command compound from the Chimera, relaying their coordinates. In the worst case, they would not now simply disappear as had Idelax’s retinue.

  Another two Korpsmen were stoking a peat-burning stove, provided by Rayoul. Though Oleris’ days were mostly warm, if wet, its temperatures dropped cruelly overnight. Not that the Krieg were unaccustomed to sleeping in the cold, but since the offer had been made, they had gladly accepted it.

  Graven’s gaze lingered on another soldier, sitting in a corner with an engineer’s shotgun between his knees, threading a cleaning rod into its barrel. Only the weapon and his shorter tunic jacket distinguished him from his comrades, though Graven felt he would have known him anyway.

  Korpsman 319-938-25549-04 had served longer under him than any other. A member of his first command squad. He had been at Graven’s side that day. One of the few people left alive who knew exactly what had happened. Of course, he never talked about it. He kept his thoughts to himself, as was only right, as was required – which didn’t stop the colonel from wondering.

  He instructed his watchmaster, ‘Draw up a rota. Two guards outside the barn throughout the night, two on patrol. I’ll take the first shift. Whatever the truth about this place, it’s time we saw it for ourselves.’

  Colonel Graven’s feet were wet, though he had recently reglued his boots. He needed a new pair, but the regimental stores had none left in his size.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29