by Dan Abnett
'Gregor… what did you do?' Medea asked.
'Just get on the shuttle.'
'What did she mean?' Fischig asked.
I didn't answer him directly. I was too tired. Too afraid that my stumbling explanation would not satisfy him. 'See that things here are done properly. I will contact you in a month with instructions/
I gave him my rosette badge of office so that his authority would be unquestioned.
It was gesture of the frankest trust, but it seemed to disturb him. Then I held out my hand, and he grasped it with a half-hearted grip.
'I'll do my job/ he said. 'Have I ever let you down?'
He hadn't, and I supposed that was his point. Fischig had never let me down, but perhaps now the reverse was not so true.
Two days later, we were ensconced in a suite of cabins aboard the far trader Pulchritude, en route to Gudmn in the Helican sub. A three-week passage, Emperor willing.
I slept for long periods during the voyage, the deep and thankfully dreamless sleep of the soul-weary, but my fatigue lingered. The work on Miquol had been draining, mentally and emotionally. Each time I woke, feeling rested, there was a moment of precious calm before I remembered what I had done. Then the anxieties returned.
Every day of the voyage, I made two visits. The first was to the ship's chapel, where I said my observances more dutifully and strictly than I had done in a hundred years. I felt unclean, violated, though the violation was self-inflicted, I know. I longed for a confessor. In better days, I would have turned to Alizebeth, but that was not possible now.
Instead, I prayed for her survival. I prayed for Swole's health to be restored. I made offerings and lit candles for the souls of Poul Rassi, Duclane Haar and poor Dahault, who had perished in the cutter crash.
I prayed for Bastian Verveuk's soul and craved absolution.
I prayed for Fischig's understanding.
In my service to the God-Emperor, I have always considered myself a dutiful and faithful soul, but it is strange how the everyday customs of worship become so easily neglected. During that voyage, having stumbled closer to the path of heresy than at any time in my life, I felt, ironically, as if my faith was renewed. Perhaps it takes a glimpse over the lip of the abyss to truly appreciate the pure heavens above. I felt chastened and virtuous, as if I had survived an ordeal and emerged a better man.
During the moments of self-doubt and anxiety, and they were numerous, I wondered if that sense of spiritual improvement was simply subconscious denial. Had the events of Miquol really been an overdue wake-up call to steer me smartly back onto the puritan path, or was I deluding myself? Deluding myself like Quixos and all the others who had fallen into the abyss without even realising it.
The second daily visit was to the armoured hold where the daemonhost was secured.
The Pulchritude's captain, a stern Ingeranian called Gelb Startis, had almost refused point blank to accept the daemonhost aboard his ship. Of course, he didn't know it was a daemonhost. Very few individuals in the Imperium would know how to recognise one, and besides I had draped the silent figure in hooded robes. But there was a tangible air of evil and decay around the shrouded monster.
I'd been in no mood to bargain with Startis. I'd simply established my credentials with my signet ring, given him my personal guarantee that the 'guest' would be properly monitored, and paid him three times the going rate for our passage.
That had made the whole venture more appealing for him.
I'd chained the daemonhost in the hold, and spent ten hours inscribing the area with the correct sigils of containment. Cherubael was still zombie-like and dumb, as if entranced. The severe trauma of its binding was still lingering, and for the while it was docile.
On each visit, I triple-checked the sigils and, where necessary, refreshed them. I used a quill and ink dye to permanently mark in the runes I had painted on its flesh in blood.
That was chilling work. Verveuk's body had healed and was now glossy and healthy. His eyes were closed, but his face was still that of the young inquisitor, though the boy's forehead was beginning to bulge with the vestigial nub-horns that were sprouting from the bone.
On the ninth day, it opened Verveuk's eyes. The blank wrath of Cherubael shone out. It had finally come through the terrible rigours of binding, rigours made worse by the crude and rudimentary way I had performed the rite.
'He wants you dead/ were the first words it spoke.
'Am I speaking to Bastian or Cherabael?'
'Both/ it said.
1 nodded. 'Nice try, Cherubael. I know Verveuk is gone from that body.'
'He hates you though. I tasted his soul as he passed out of this body and I passed in. He knows what you did and he's taken that dread knowledge to the afterlife with him/
The Emperor protects/
The Emperor craps himself at the sound of my name/ it responded.
I slapped its face hard. 'You are bound, lord daemon prince, and you will be respectful/
Floating off the dirty hold floor, wrenching at its securing chains, Cherubael began to scream obscenities at me. I left.
On each return visit, it tried a different tack.
On the tenth day, it was pleading, remorseful.
On the eleventh, sullen and promising grievous harm to me.
On the thirteenth, silent and uncooperative.
On the sixteenth, sly.
The truth of it, Gregor/ it said, 'is that I've missed you. Our times together have always been exhilarating. Quixos was a cruel master, but you understand me. On that island, you called on me for help. Oh, we've had our differences. And you're a tricky so-and-so. But I like that. I think my existence could be an awful lot worse than being in your thrall. So, tell me… what do you have planned? What glorious work will you and I do together? You'll find me willing, ready. In time, you'll be able to trust me. Like a friend. I've always wanted one of those. You and me, Gregor, friends, working together. How would that be?'
That would be impossible/
'Oh, Gregor…' it chided.
'Silence!' I said. I couldn't stomach its silky bonhomie. 'I am an Imperial inquisitor serving the light of the Golden Throne of Terra, and you are a thing of filth and darkness, serving only yourself. You are everything I stand against/
It licked its lips. Verveuk's canines were becoming ice-white fangs. 'So why did you ever decide to bind me, Eisenhorn?'
'I regularly ask myself the same question/1 said.
'Release me, then/ it whispered. 'Cut me free from these pentagrammic bindings and let me go. We'll call it even. I'll go, and we'll never bother each other again. I promise. Let me go and that will be the matter done/
'Just how stupid do you think I am?' I asked.
He floated up a little higher, cocked his head on one side, and smiled. 'It was worth a try/
I was at the door when he called my name again.
'I'm content, you know. Being bound to you/
'Really?' I replied with disinterest.
It nodded gleefully. 'It gives me ample opportunity to corrupt you entirely/
On the nineteenth day, it nearly got me. When 1 entered the hold, it was sobbing on the floor. I tried to ignore it, checking the sigils, but it looked up.
'Master!' it said.
Verveuk?'
Yes! Please, master! It's gone away for a moment, and I have control again. Please, cut me free! Banish it!'
'Bastian, I-'
'I forgive you, master! I know you only did what you had to do and I'm more grateful than you could know that you chose me as worthy for this desperate work! But please, please! While I have control! Banish it and release me from this torture!'
I approached it, gripping my runestaff. 'I can't, Bastian/
You can, master! Now, while mere's a moment clear! Oh, the agony! To be locked in here with that monster! To share the same flesh! It is gnawing away at my soul, and showing me things to drive me insane! Give mercy, master!'
I reached out and pointed to a c
omplex rune inscribed on his chest. You see this?'
Yes?'
That is the rune of voiding. It is an essential part of the binding transaction. It empties the host of any previous soul so that the daemon can be contained. In effect, it kills the original host. You are not Bastian Verveuk because Bastian is dead and departed from this flesh. I killed him. You mimick his voice well, as I would expect, because you have his larynx and palate, but you are Cherubael/
It sighed, nodded and floated up again to the limit its chains would permit.
You can't blame me for trying/
I slapped its face again hard. 'No, but I can punish you/
It didn't react.
'Understand this, daemon. Binding you, using you, that has cost me dearly. I hate myself for doing it. But there was no choice. Now I have you enslaved again, I am going to take no chances. The correct containment of you will now become my life's primary devotion. The history texts will not remember me as a man so driven to accomplish things he got lazy and slack. There is no escape from me now. I will not allow it. You are mine and you will stay mine/
'I see/
'Do you understand?'
'I understand you are a man of the highest piety and resolve/
'Good/
'Just one thing: how does it feel to be a murderer?'
* * *
Earlier, I remarked that very few citizens of the Imperium of Man would recognise a daemonhost or understand what one was. That is true. It is also true that the select group who would know included several of my followers. Those that had been with me on 56-Izar, Eechen, Cadia, Farness Beta.
Aemos and Medea certainly understood the concept of daemonhosting. I had briefed them myself. I felt that Medea, like Fischig, only vaguely understood what I had brought onto the Pulchritude with me, though they regarded it with shuddering suspicion.
Aemos knew, though. He knew damn well. As far as I could tell, he knew everything that it was possible to know without going mad. But he had been with me longer than any of them. We had been friends and companions for more years than I dared count. I knew I had his trust and that I'd have to err wildly before he questioned my methods.
I realised after a day or two of the voyage that he wasn't even going to mention it.
I couldn't have that. I wanted openness. So I brought the matter up myself.
It was late one night, perhaps the fifth night of the voyage. We were playing double regicide (two boards in parallel, one played backwards using militants as crowning pieces, the other played long with sentries wild and a freedom to regent-up on white-square takes after the third sequence of play… this was the only formation of the ancient strategy game that even began to test his mind) and sipping the best amasec Startis could provide.
'Our passenger,' I began, picking up a squire piece and then putting it down again as I contemplated my next move, 'what are your thoughts? You've been very quiet.'
'I didn't believe it was my place to remark,' he said.
I moved the squire to militant three and immediately regretted it. 'Uber, how long have we been friends?'
I could tell he was actually about to calculate. 'I believe we first met in the seventh month of-'
'I mean roughly.'
'Well, to say friends, perhaps several years after our first meeting, which would make it-'
'Could we agree that a rough estimate would be… a very long time?'
He thought about it. 'We could,' he said, sounding unconvinced.
And we are friends, aren't we?'
'Oh, of course! Well, I hope so/ he said, promptly taking my dexter basilisk and securing a ruthless toe-hold into my second line. Aren't we?'
Yes. Yes, we are. I look to you for answers.'
'You do/
'Sometimes, I think those answers could come without me having to ask the questions first/
'Hmmm/ he said. He was about to move his yale. He raised the bone-carved piece and studied it closely. 'I have always wondered about the yale/
he said. A heraldic beast, obviously, tracing its origins back into the ages before the Great Strife. But what does it represent? The analogies of the other pieces, given historic traditions and the structure of Imperial culture, are obvious. But the yale… of all pieces in regicide, that one puzzles me…'
You're doing it again/
'Doing what?'
'Procrastinating. Avoiding the issue/
Am I?'
You are/
'I'm sorry/ He put the piece down again, taking one of my raptors in a move I simply hadn't seen coming. Now he had my militant in a vice.
Well?'
'Well?'
'What do you think?'
He frowned. The yale. Most perturbatory/
I rallied and took his yale abruptly. It was a foolish move, but it got his attention.
About the other matter. The passenger/
'It's a daemonhost/
'Yes, it is/1 said, almost relieved.
'You bound it into Verveuk's body on Miquol/
'I did. I think you watched me do it/
'I was concussed, drowsy. But, yes. I saw it/
'What do you think about that?'
He made a guard piece a regent and crossed into my sinister field. The game would be over in another half dozen moves.
'I try not to, for what it's worth. I try not to imagine how a man I have followed and believed in for so long suddenly has the means and power to unleash a daemon, channel it and bind it again. I try not to think about the possibility that Bastian Verveuk was alive when the binding occurred. I try to believe that my beloved inquisitor hasn't crossed a line from where there is no crossing back/
'Checkmate/ he added.
I conceded both boards and sat back. 'I'm sorry/1 said.
'For what?'
'For putting you through this/
'Your questions are-'
'No. I don't mean that. In the course of my hunt for Quixos, I learned several dark things. Chief of those was the means to control a daemon. It is knowledge that I would have chosen never to use. But the Titan was too much. It couldn't be allowed to survive. I had nothing left in my arsenal except dark lore/
I understand, Gregor. Truly. This conversation wasn't even necessary. You did what you had to do. We survived… most of us anyway. Chaos was denied. That's the job, isn't it? No one ever said it would be easy. Sacrifices have to be made or the God-Emperor's work will never be done/
He leaned forward, his augmetic eyes glittering in the firelight. 'Honestly, Gregor… if I thought you had become some demented radical, would I be sitting here playing regicide with you?'
Thank you, Uber/ I said.
Aemos had given me a harder time than I had expected. Medea, on the other hand, I was braced for, and her reaction surprised me too.
'Daemon-what? I don't care.'
'You don't?'
'Not really. Thuring is all I care about, and you used everything you had to to get him.'
'I did/
'Well, good for you.'
We were sitting in amongst the plush cushions of the Pulchritude's observation deck.
She peered at me, frowning. 'Oh, I get it. You're afraid that all of us will think that you've become some heretical psycho crazy.'
By 'all of us' she meant my staff.
'Do you?'
'Hell, no! Get over it, boss! If I could do what you can do, I'd have done the same! Screw Thuring any way you can!'
I sighed. 'I didn't do it for your rather, Medea.'
'What?'
'I mean I did, but I didn't. I wanted to avenge Midas, of course, but I only unleashed the daemon because Thuring and his damned Titan threatened more than just us.'
That planet, you mean?'
'That planet… and others.'
'Right.'
'What's the matter?'
She stroked her hair back off her face and reached for her drink. You're telling me that if the planet hadn't been in danger, you wouldn't have done the w
hole daemon thing?'
'No. I want you to understand this. I wanted Thuring dead. I wanted him to pay for your father's death. But I didn't release Cherabael in vengeance. That would have been petty and small-minded. I could never have justified that, not even to myself. I released the daemon because Fayde Thuring had become more than just a personal enemy. He'd become an enemy of the Imperium. I had to stop him then, and I was out of options. What I mean is, it was a totally pragmatic decision in the end. Not a weak, emotional one.'
'Whatever. Thuring suffered, didn't he? He burned? That's all I care about. But you owe me, though?'
'I do?'
You swore it. On your secrets. That I'd be there when-'
You were!'
'No thanks to you! And not so I could play a part and make Thuring suffer. So you owe me. And I want that secret. Now/
'What secret?'
You choose. But it's got to be the darkest one you have. Since you brought it up, what about this… this Cherabael?'
And that was how I came to tell her everything about the daemonhost. Everything. I did it because of the honour of our oath. I also did it, I believe now, because I wished to unburden myself to a confessor and Bequin wasn't there. I did it and didn't even pause to think what might result from it.
God-Emperor forgive me.
I have always loved Gudrun, the old capital world of the Helican sub-sector. For a long time, I had made my main home on Thracian Primaris, a world crusted by cities, riddled with crime, lamed by overpopulation. But I had only lived there for the sake of convenience. It was the capital world after all, and the Palace of the Inquisition was sited there. I visit it as little as possible, for it depresses me.
But after the vile events of the Holy Novena, five decades before, I had transferred my chief residence to the more relaxing climes of Gudrun. Returning there, I felt somehow safe.
We bade Startis farewell and offloaded our luggage onto a privately chartered shuttle. I had prepared a cargo pod for Cherubael, fully inscribed and warded, the accomplishment of which took many hours. I said the appropriate rites and chained it inside, adding a charm that would render it docile. The pod was loaded by mute servitors into the shuttle's hold.
We dropped planetwards.
From the ports of the passenger bay, I looked down at the green expanses of the world. The great stretches of wild land and forest, the blue seas, the tight order of the ancient cities. For many years it had been the sub-sector capital, until the bloated giant Thracian Primaris had commandeered that role. I knew from experience that evil and corruption lurked here as much as it did on any Imperial world. But this was the epitome of Imperial life, for all its vices and flaws, a singular example of the very culture I had devoted my life to safeguard.