‘There was no woman standing there, arbitrator,’ Vex said right behind her, making her jump. ‘Hypasitis is a place that weighs heavily on frayed minds. I suggest we find our guild before it gets any later. Tomorrow will likely be just as taxing as today.’
Rannik said nothing, but slung her bag over her shoulder and followed Frain’s operative towards the disembarkation ladder. As she went her back prickled and her fists clenched. She could have sworn she felt eyes from the drive cabin doorway on her, every step of the way.
Our sanctuary is violated, my children. He is coming, and he is carrying the darkness with him. I have seen his approach. I have seen the thing that latches its claws on to him, into him, into the flesh of his back. Years ago it ripped his flesh, and it rips his soul still. The canker is throbbing within him, choking his throat, writhing in his breast. Old Arathar will not listen to us, so we must act alone. We must cut it out. I have prepared the necessary tools. We must free him of his taint, carve it from his body before it is too late. Before he brings damnation and destruction down upon us all.
Bring him to me.
– Astropathic dream-cant echo, detected by the choristorum on Bella Natrix and deciphered by Astro-scrivener Hudlo, 4583891.M41.
_________ Chapter V
The high hall of the Lost Eyrie was a place of barbaric splendour. The black stone walls of the spire’s pinnacle were interspersed with burning braziers and battle trophies – ragged banners bearing the Ashen Claws’ sigils and the bald-headed corvids hung alongside ancient suits of tarnished, dark power armour and archaic weaponry of all shapes and sizes. The floor was spread with rough mats of woven tundra grass and littered with the bones and spilt drink of a prolonged feast. A dozen heavy tables were ranged around a central pit which crackled with the embers of a dying fire, the benches that flanked them packed with revellers. They were a mixture of Space Marines and humans, male and female, mostly unarmoured, pale-skinned, dark-haired and clad in furs and homespun. They had been in uproarious conversation, the tables scattered with platters of half-eaten vat-meat, gritbread and fungal dressings. As Bail Sharr entered, however, silence fell. All eyes turned towards the interlopers.
The Reaper Prime and his command squad ignored the stares and muttering as the heavy adamantium doors clanged shut behind them, sending shudders through the floor. Sharr began to advance to the far end of the hall, where a raised dais was occupied by the top table. Its occupants were as eclectic a mix as anywhere else in the chamber – several Space Marines, some armoured in the dark grey and butcher’s red of the renegade Chapter, some humans of varying ages. Between them all was a particularly broad Space Marine, sat on a high-backed throne and clad only in rough-patched trousers and a loincloth of black feathers. His skin, puckered with scars and the dermal ports of the black carapace, was pale as alabaster, even whiter than that of the Carcharodons. His eyes were similarly black, while his long, jet hair hung down about his broad shoulders. His face had a leanness to it, haughty and cruel. At his right hand sat a woman, slender where the Space Marine was broad, though her skin was almost as fair and her hair, bound up about her crown, was almost as black. She wore a shamanic dress of thick corvid feathers, and her right hand rested on a large, yellowing bird skull set on the table before her.
Not a word was spoken as the Carcharodons delegation passed around the fire smouldering in the pit at the hall’s centre and came to a halt before the dais. The silence was broken by the cawing of one of the ugly, bald-headed birds that seemed to infest the Eyrie, perched up on the flying buttresses of black stone that broke up the hall’s open ceiling.
‘Carcharodon Astra,’ the bare-chested Space Marine said slowly, a cold smile splitting his white features. ‘I see my First Company captain has guided you straight and true. You are as bold and as foolish as ever, coming here after what transpired between us last time.’
‘Chapter Master Nehat Nev,’ Sharr said, inclining his head. ‘Kia orrae. It has been some time since I saw you last.’
Nev’s smile disappeared. He did not mirror the Carcharodon’s respectful gesture.
‘Then you have me at a disadvantage already, little predator. You are not Akia, yet you wear his battleplate. And, going by the killer’s lust in your eyes, I more than suspect you are descended from his lineage.’
‘I am Reaper Prime Bail Sharr, of the Third Company,’ Sharr responded. ‘I was a member of Captain Akia’s delegation when last we visited your domain.’
‘What has become of Akia?’
‘Dead these past ten years. Killed battling xenos in the depths of the Outer Dark.’
Nev grunted. His expression didn’t show whether he welcomed the news or considered it sorrowful.
‘So Akia is gone,’ he said. ‘And the rest of your Chapter must be dying. You would not be here otherwise. It is always the same.’
‘The reasons for our return are the same,’ Sharr allowed. ‘But what we find here is also the same. The Ashen Claws, champions of the Great Crusade, reduced to feasting and drinking away whatever remains of their legacy in a forgotten system abandoned by everyone – your allies, your enemies, the gods themselves.’
Nev’s expression darkened, and the Space Marines either side of him visibly stiffened.
‘Akia’s progeny indeed,’ the Ashen Claw said. ‘Arrogant. Bold. Hungry for blood. If you were with us when last we parleyed, you will remember well enough that his foolishness nearly got him killed. You would do well to not repeat his mistakes so soon.’
‘I have not come here for blood,’ Sharr said. ‘My ships stand off at your command, and my company remains in orbit. My own honour guard are outside, beyond the sealed doors of this hall. My life is at your mercy, raven’s son, but my death would benefit only those who would destroy us both.’
‘Then speak,’ Nev snapped, slamming a fist down suddenly on the table, sending platters and utensils clattering. ‘Why are you here, mongrel?’
‘We require a tithe,’ Sharr said.
‘Of course. Of flesh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? Have your own Red Tithings failed you, Reaper Prime?’
‘The Chapter is at war. There is a vast xenos threat, the scale of which is not yet known to the Imperium, approaching from the Outer Dark. It must be contained.’
‘And what do you bring in return?’
‘Arms and armour, enough to replenish your supplies and restore some of your faded glory.’
‘Do the machine-men know you are siphoning off their gifts to traitors and renegades?’ Nev asked mockingly. ‘You understand that the Imperium you claim to serve would have you all declared excommunicate traitoris if they discovered your dealings with us?’
‘The Grey Tithes are ours, to do with as we please,’ Sharr said. ‘And you do not know the contents of our Edicts of Exile. The pact between us is one of convenience. Through it, countless sectors of Imperial space have been preserved, without their commanders even realising the danger their worlds were in.’
‘You still serve an Imperium that is barely even aware of your existence,’ Nev said. ‘Ten thousand years and you have not changed. Your doctrines are ones of miserable self-isolation and denial. You have surrendered any scraps of human nature you once had. Those you save view you as monsters, and rightly so. At least here we have not forgotten or abandoned what you still fight to save – our humanity.’
‘That is as the Void Father wishes,’ Sharr said, forcing his voice to remain level. ‘I have not come here to debate the doctrines of my Chapter, Nehat Nev. I came with a simple offer. A flesh tithe and fleet support in exchange for materiel.’
‘Now we come to the truth of it,’ Nev said, smiling coldly. ‘Not only will you take our sons, but you wish to draw us into your wars. Fleet support? We have come a long way to avoid serving your rotting Imperium, shark. Why would we change that now?’
‘The threat we
are facing is not one you have encountered before,’ Sharr said. ‘The tyranids are insatiable hive-creatures that cannot be bribed or bargained with. Their tendrils have already ravaged the Eastern Fringe once, and they will bite deeper soon if we do not stop them. If they ever reach the Atargatis System you will not be able to resist them. You will be wiped from existence, and none will ever know of your passing.’
‘And these words are supposed to encourage me to assist you?’ Nev demanded. ‘If this foe really is as dire as you say then why should I risk my own Chapter’s ships and warriors? Let your Imperium face this threat. I will not sacrifice my people for your corrupt masters.’
‘I am calling upon you to remember your purpose, Ashen Claw,’ Sharr responded. ‘You and your brothers are warriors first and last. Here you slide into the arms of indolence and debauchery. When was the last time you crossed blades with an enemy beyond your sparring pits? And do not claim you seek to preserve your own people. You are headed towards extinction as assuredly as we are. Without the proper facilities and the right knowledge your gene-seed is degrading and your numbers are shrinking. How many of you will be left in a few hundred years? A thousand? We can change that. We can preserve your legacy if you show us that it is something worth saving.’
‘Enough of this,’ barked one of the other Space Marines at the high table, rising so fast that his chair clattered back. ‘This traitor-born scum has gone too far!’
‘Sit down, Brother Tanthius,’ snapped a voice. The command did not come from Nev, but from the human woman sitting beside him. She glared at the Space Marine who had risen. The Ashen Claw glanced at his Chapter Master, but Nev’s black eyes hadn’t left Sharr’s. After a moment, Tanthius retrieved his seat.
‘Reaper Prime,’ the woman said, looking back at Sharr. ‘Continue.’
Sharr glanced at her for a moment, then nodded his head in thanks.
‘We bring more than just bolters and power armour,’ he said. ‘We bring the genetic legacy of your ancestors. Not much, for we have little enough to spare as it is. But it is pure.’
‘You have not contaminated it with your disgusting breed?’ Nev demanded.
‘No. I have full details, as well as readouts covering the rest of our offerings, available as part of a data burst package. You may also inspect it in person, of course.’
‘And how many of my sons will you take in exchange for it?’
‘That can be debated. The assistance of part of your fleet is just as important. We will almost certainly be overrun without it.’
‘You want the Wicked Claw,’ Nev said. ‘And you think the offer of a gene-seed tribute alongside arms and armour will be enough. But it will not be. If you were with Akia when last your Chapter entered this place you would know why negotiations came so close to breaking down. You have something that belongs to the Ashen Claws, shark. Something that belonged to my forbears. Two items that your master stole from us.’
‘This has been discussed before,’ Sharr said.
‘And remains unresolved,’ Nev said before Sharr could go on. ‘You want a deal, Reaper Prime. You want our flesh and our warships. You have made that much clear. Let me tell you what I want in return. I want the return of the Red Wake’s gauntlets. I want Hunger, and I want Slake.’
The Space Marine named Arathar was a psyker. It was obvious enough from his attire, but was further confirmed by the aura of power bleeding from him. Khauri’s witch-sight could see it coiling and twisting like a golden nebula, waiting to be harnessed with a single word or gesture. It was a power not far removed from Te Kahurangi’s, just as potent and seemingly intuitive.
After greeting one another, Arathar had taken the Carcharodons Chief Librarian into the room he had emerged from – Khauri caught an impression of spartan rock-cut walls and banks of data crystals and scrolls, wrapped in plastek sheaths to preserve them from the subterranean damp. Te Kahurangi had ordered him to remain in the tunnel confluence outside. He would not be long.
Khauri had bowed his head respectfully, but inside he struggled to suppress the anger that grew more potent with every passing minute. He did not understand what was happening, and that feeling of helplessness had always been anathema to him. How did Te Kahurangi know these renegades? Worse, why did they welcome him with open arms? Did Sharr or the others know how they greeted him? If he was so close to them, why was the Chief Librarian not heading negotiations himself?
He sought to ease his concerned state, certain that Te Kahurangi or, worse, the ancient Ashen Claw would sense his distress. His mind harked back to his training, to the dangers posed by unchecked emotion. More so even than other Carcharodons, he had to find the strength to abandon undue thoughts, abandon his very self, find the cold, hard core that encapsulated the mindset of his Chapter. Te Kahurangi had assured him that the slow work of his gene-seed would combine with the Chapter doctrines and his own experiences to mould a warrior worthy of the Outer Dark. On the best of days, Khauri had his doubts. On the worst, he heard the voice.
The Lexicanium turned slightly, his thoughts interrupted by a sound. It resolved itself into the slow shuffle of feet. He stepped away from Arathar’s door, into the centre of the confluence of tunnels. The noise had grown louder, but the sound was bouncing, impossible to pin down to a single direction. He turned on the spot, silently cursing the seemingly impenetrable nature of the darkness pressing in against the flickering firelight of the braziers.
Focus. He could almost hear Te Kahurangi’s soft, rasping voice, speaking words of advice in the total darkness of the psy-monitor chamber on board the Nicor. He ceased his turning, closed his eyes and gripped his adamantium stave with both hands. A moment to slow his breathing, to steady his pulse, before his secondary heart could kick in. He reached out with his thoughts, the way Te Kahurangi had taught him to, coalescing them into a conscious creation – the snaking, dead-eyed creatures he had seen in the aquatic chambers aboard the Carcharodons flagship. He sent them shooting down each hall in turn, pale, pelagic shapes slipping through the darkness, visible only to those with the witch-sight.
Down the tunnel to Khauri’s left, they found something. He spun, just in time to see a trio of figures coalesce in the light cast by the braziers. They stood barely higher than his knee plates – children, he assumed, though the dark green robes and cowls they wore made it impossible to be certain. They paused on the edge of the flickering firelight, observing Khauri. They possessed an aura less pronounced but not dissimilar to Arathar’s – whatever they were, they were psykers, and potent ones at that.
‘Who are you?’ Khauri demanded.
They did not answer, though one stepped towards him. He stood his ground, stave still grasped in both hands. He felt his secondary heart kick in as his body flooded with adrenal and combat stimms. He fought to suppress the battle-urge and maintain his focus, marshalling his psychic abilities with the use of the earthing stave.
The child stopped before him and looked up. The light picked out the grime-encrusted features of a young girl with blind, milky eyes. Despite her disability, Khauri could sense the child looking at him, her psychic potency giving her a far more probing means of discernment.
‘You are one of them,’ the girl said. The other two children had followed her, and now stood before the towering Space Marine.
‘I am a void brother of the Carcharodon Astra,’ Khauri said, trying to master the sense of unease that had crept over him. They were just children. Yet how could their young minds apparently harness such psychic strength?
‘Yes,’ the girl said, frowning slightly. ‘But you are also one of them.’
‘I do not understand,’ Khauri began, but he got no further. The girl reached out and touched his stave. He felt a shockingly cold, icy sensation rush over him, like a sudden winter flood. He tried to utter the words of warding Te Kahurangi had taught him, tried to marshal his psychic barriers against the sudden assault, but he
was too slow and the attack was too overwhelming. His vision dimmed, and the last sensation he felt was a plummeting dislocation as he fell, his stave tumbling from his grasp.
Then, nothing.
The Ashen Claws’ librarium was buried deep beneath the Eyrie, shielded by adamantium-laced rock and wards of triple-locked power. Te Kahurangi joined Arathar at the centre of it, the two Space Marines pacing together between the red-lit data racks and stone-cut alcoves filled with tomes and interspersed with the bones of the Chapter’s corvids. So far below ground, the only noise was the crackle of the electro-candles, the slow drip of moisture and the tapping of the Librarians’ force staffs.
‘Our difficulties continue,’ Arathar said, breaking the quiet.
‘I sensed as much,’ Te Kahurangi admitted. ‘Nehat Nev is becoming ever more desperate.’
‘Resources have grown thin,’ Arathar said. ‘And the tribes are ever more restless. Some speak of rebellion. He has sought to channel their urges into raids on nearby settlements, but he is too afraid of discovery. The Imperium is not as indolent as we like to believe. It is always watching.’
‘It is,’ Te Kahurangi said. The two lapsed into silence once more as they walked. After a while Te Kahurangi motioned towards the chamber around them.
‘Your librarium is quiet, Arathar. I assume your quest to secure a fresh apprentice remains unfulfilled.’
‘You are correct,’ Arathar said, unable to mask the bitterness in his voice. ‘I do not have the resources to find a suitable inductee, and Nev will not permit me to travel far in search of one.’
Carcharodons: Outer Dark Page 9