Part 9 (1/2)
Voices crackle over the comm-net. The fighting has been brief. Only Brother Thymus has fallen.
Halser shakes his head, suspicious at the ease of their victory. *Hold your positions. The enemy don't usually attack in such small numbers.' He turns to see that Comus has dropped to his knees and is still clutching his head.
He rushes to the Librarian's side. *Are you wounded?'
As Comus looks up, his face is ashen and his eyes are blazing. *Is the device sending me mad? Can't you hear it?'
Halser shakes his head in confusion. *Hear what?'
*The clouds,' groans Comus, his voice filled with horror. *They're talking to us.'
CHAPTER FOUR.
Monks and servitors melt into the shadows, scattering like vermin before the approaching Navigator. A servo-skull drifts ahead of him, trailing smoke-shrouded censers and bearing a tall, guttering candle. As the light flickers across rows of gloomy alcoves, it picks out the Domitus's cowering denizens. They peer suspiciously at the slender n.o.ble and mutter prayers into their hoods. Even the s.h.i.+p's most ill-omened wretches breathe a sigh of relief as Palchus van Tol pa.s.ses them by.
At the end of a long, vaulted pa.s.sageway stands his father, peering through a leaded viewport. It is hard see anything through the metre-thick panes, clouded as they are by ash and cobwebs, but as Palchus approaches he can just make out the vague, spectral presence of Ilissus.
*They were Relictors,' he mutters.
*Who were?' asks the baron, turning towards him.
*The Adeptus Astartes sent down onto the planet. I spoke to some of the stevedores. Mortmain himself had sworn them to secrecy.' He grimaces. *It was not easy to extract the truth.'
*Oh yes, I know who's down there.' Baron van Tol fixes his half-lidded eyes on his nephew. *You're not the only one here with sight.' He raps his knuckles against the gla.s.s. *What do you see now, though?'
Palchus looks out at the ghostly planet and shakes his head. *Nothing. Nothing beyond the warp storms, that is. I've never seen such power.'
The baron sneers. *It's a dirty, crude form of sorcery, but yes, it's certainly powerful.' He looks around, noting the hooded figures flitting through the shadows, and leans closer to his nephew, lowering his voice. *If Mortmain doesn't act soon the corruption will spread.' He plucks an object from his braided ceremonial jacket and lifts it up into the candlelight. It is a tiny hourgla.s.s, housed within a frame of intricately engraved finger bones.
Palchus grimaces at the sight of it. The sand has gathered in the centre, refusing to fall either way. He grabs his father's wrist, pulls the hourgla.s.s closer and shakes it, to no effect. *What does it mean?'
The baron shrugs. *Time is on the run, Palchus. The storm on Ilissus is spreading.' He lowers his voice even further. *The concordat has only bought us a brief reprieve. If Ilissus isn't destroyed soon, the other Houses will smell a rat. They have a little more insight than these plebeians.' He looks back at the planet. *They won't believe this rubbish about the Black Legion. They will see the storms for what they truly are. We will be ruined.'
*Then what do we do?' Palchus's voice is edged with panic. *The inquisitor is obviously lying to us. Why would he send s.p.a.ce Marines onto a planet scheduled for Exterminatus?'
The baron shakes his head and puts the hourgla.s.s back into his pocket. *The Relictors are scavengers. They're famed for it. They're vile magpies, always peering beneath stones that ought to be left unturned. Everyone knows they're just a step away from heresy, but Inquisitor Mortmain must have allowed them one last chance to explore the planet for some reason. Beforea' He pauses and curls his lip with displeasure. *Before the problems arose, Ilissus was famed for its scriptoria. One in particular is said to house doc.u.ments and relics older than the Imperium itself.'
*The Zeuxis Scriptorium.'
The baron nods. *The Zeuxis Scriptorium is particularly infamous. The priests in charge had similar interests to the Relictors, interests that most reputable people would consider heretical. It has been lost for centuries, but the Relictors have a knack of unearthing things.' He pulls back his shoulders and raises his chin. *I must think. Meet me in my chambers in an hour.' As he ambles off down the pa.s.sageway, another servo-skull drifts down from the rafters and trails after him, lighting the way. *Do nothing,' he says, sneering at Palchus as he disappears around a corner.
Palchus drums his fingers against the viewport. What's Mortmain thinking? Why would he delay even a second when so much is at risk? Why would he ignore the concordat? Someone must know. He stands there for a few minutes, muttering to himself, until an idea hits him. It seems to arrive fully formed, as though the s.h.i.+p itself has answered his question. *Of course,' he mutters. *There are other Relictors on board. They must know what's going on.'
He strides over to an empty alcove. It is a shrine of some kind, but he pays no attention to the hunched, winged statue crouched in the darkness, as he sits on a stone bench and closes his eyes. He places his fingers beneath the peak of his cap, resting them on a swelling in the middle of his forehead. Then he whispers an incantation under his breath and, after a few minutes, his breathing begins to quicken and beads of sweat appear on his face. Numb pain spreads from his forehead and he moans softly. Images tumble through his mind. He sees engines: vast, oil-black behemoths, thundering and belching far below him in the belly of the Domitus. Then he sees miles of featureless hab blocks, housing legions of crewmen and priests and whole regiments of Guardsmen. Many of the Guardsmen are wounded and as Palchus's mind touches theirs, he feels agony and fear. He moves on, holding his breath as he looks through flight decks, chapels, cloisters and hangars, searching desperately until he senses something quite different from the Guardsmen: a sliver of cool, hard arrogance. *Yes,' he whispers. The minds of the Adeptus Astartes are unmistakable. He removes his fingers from his forehead, pulls his cap back into place and finally exhales. *Just a few kilometres away.' To find his targets so easily seems a little odd, but Palchus is so anxious he does not pause to consider the odds of stumbling across the Relictors so quickly.
He rises and looks out into the pa.s.sageway. The baron's light has faded from view. *I'm sorry father,' he says, his voice trembling with emotion, *I won't just sit around as our name is thrown to the dogs.' With that, he turns and hurries in the opposite direction, quickly disappearing into the endless maze of corridors.
After a few seconds the large, winged shape crouched in the shrine climbs down from the wall. As it steps out into the pa.s.sage, the outline of the thing is hard to discern, but as it slips quietly after Palchus, one of the hooded onlookers is unfortunate enough to catch a brief glimpse. He stumbles back against the wall with a curse, left with an image of torn, ruptured flesh and battered, jagged iron. As the onlooker drops to his knees, pressing his palms over his eyes, he hears the rattle of chains, sc.r.a.ping into the distance.
After half an hour, Palchus notices that the pa.s.sageways are growing narrower and less well-kept. There is no sign of any servitors and piles of waste lie uncleared in the corners. The air grows thick with the smell of engine oil and faeces, and the Navigator hides his face behind a silk, perfumed handkerchief. Are these really suitable quarters for Adeptus Astartes, he wonders? Then he remembers which Chapter he is looking for: the Relictors. Their fall from grace is almost laughable. An open sewer is the perfect place to house men with so many accusations of heresy hanging over them.
Eventually, the ceiling falls so low that the servo-skull is unable to follow and Palchus curses, stumbling to a halt in the darkness. *What is this place?' he mutters, pulling a small light from his jacket pocket. As the thin beam washes over the walls ahead, he sees the pa.s.sageway is no longer made of stone: it is a jumble of corrugated iron, rusted heating vents and gurgling, hissing pipes.
*Perhaps this isn't right,' he mutters, stooping and edging slowly forwards.
Then he hears a sound from behind him and turns around, levelling his light at the shadows. The darkness ripples and slides but he can see nothing clearly. A feeling of dread grips him.
Palchus draws his sword and considers turning back, but barely has the thought formed in his mind when the door behind rattles free of its supports and slams down onto the stone floor. The resultant clang causes the Navigator to flinch so violently that his light slips from his fingers and bounces away into the shadows, extinguis.h.i.+ng itself as it goes.
Palchus curses as pitch dark descends. *Is anyone there?' he calls, his words echoing weirdly through the narrow pa.s.sageway.
There is no reply.
Palchus drops to his knees and reaches through the darkness. He is sure he can pinpoint where the light fell, but as his fingers brush over the cold stone, they find no trace of the metal cylinder.
*Where is it?' he hisses, with a rising sense of panic.
As the Navigator's fingers stretch further, they brush against something soft and warm.
He yelps in horror, scrabbling back towards the wall.
Terror grips him as he climbs to his feet and backs away as fast as he can. The darkness is so complete that he is forced to feel his way along the cold, sticky metal of the walls, cursing under his breath as his fingers catch on jagged edges and broken screws.
Despite the pain he gradually picks up speed, gaining confidence as his eyes start to adjust to the dark. He realises that there is an opening up ahead and breaks into a sprint, holding his sword out ahead of him as he runs.
As Palchus nears the doorway, he glimpses movement up ahead: a hunched, glistening shape, too fast to make out clearly.
Seconds before he reaches the opening, the door clangs shut.
Palchus slams into it with a grunt. His sword buckles and twists painfully in his grip.
As he slides to the floor, holding his hands up in front of his face, he senses something in the darkness.
A shape is approaching.
CHAPTER FIVE.
As the rest of squad Elicius clamber awkwardly over the rocks, Sergeant Halser pauses on an outcrop and waits for Brother-Librarian Comus to catch up. As he watches his old friend approaching he feels a painful mixture of anger and guilt. Comus's power armour is cloaked in dust and as he stumbles over the weird terrain his face remains locked in a grimace, but he still has the libellus clasped firmly in his grip. *I had no choice,' growls Halser to himself. *This is our last chance.'