The dark eldar lord picked himself up. A flap of his skin hung from his throat, exposing his wetly glistening anatomy beneath. Impatiently, he pushed it back around his neck as his underlings ran to obey his orders.
Information came at him in a barrage, each morsel more serious than the last.
We have lost power to the holofields.’
The mainsail has been damaged and some of the cable stays have been severed.’
‘Hull integrity lost on the tormentor deck. The prisoners awaiting torture are all dead.’
Kesharq knew that this battle was over for now. Stripped of the protection of her holofields, the Stormrider was too exposed and would be an easy target for its enemy’s gunners. The prey had proved worthy indeed and he would not make the mistake of underestimating this foe again.
‘Disengage!’ he ordered. We will return to our lair and effect repairs to the ship. ‘This meat will wait for another day.’
‘ELDAR VESSEL IS retreating!’ shouted Philotas, and Tiberius released a pent-up sigh of relief.
‘Very well,’ said Tiberius. ‘Set course for Pavonis and when we are in range of secure communication, inform fleet control of the eldar’s ability to masquerade as Imperial vessels.’
‘Yes, lord admiral.’
Tiberius rubbed a calloused hand across his skull. They had been caught off-guard by the eldar and had been taught a painful lesson in humility. He tapped at his lectern and assigned himself thirty nights of penitent fasting and tactical study for his failure to anticipate the attack before climbing down to the buckled command nave.
Ario Barzano squatted by the base of the pulpit, wiping blood clear of Perjed’s brow and smiled as Tiberius knelt beside him.
‘Well done, lord admiral. Your quick manoeuvring saved us.’
‘Let us not mince words, Adept Barzano—’
‘Ario.’
Very well… Ario. Had it not been for your warning we would all now be dead.’
‘Possibly,’ admitted Barzano. ‘But I’m sure you’d have guessed what they were up to soon enough.’
Tiberius raised a sceptical eyebrow and said, ‘How is it a man of the Administratum knows so much of alien vessels?’
Barzano grinned impishly. ‘I have been many places, Lazlo, met many interesting people and I am a good listener. I pick up things from everything I see and everyone I meet.’
He shrugged and said, ‘In my position, a great deal of esoteric things come my way and I make sure that I digest them all. But come, lord admiral, the real question is not how I know anything, but how did our enemies know where to find us? I am assuming you brought us in away from the normal shipping lanes.’
‘Of course.’
Barzano raised his eyebrows. ‘Then how did they know we would be here? My signal went only to the governor of Pavonis.’
‘Do you suspect her of being in league with the eldar?’
‘My dear lord admiral, I am a bureaucrat. I suspect everyone,’ laughed Barzano before becoming serious. ‘But you are right, the allegiance of the governor is one of many concerns I have.’
Before Tiberius could ask any further questions, Lortuen Perjed groaned and raised a liver spotted hand to his forehead. Barzano helped the scribe to his feet and bowed briefly to Tiberius.
‘Lord admiral, if you will excuse me, I should take Lortuen to see my personal physician. Anyway, it was most educational to visit your bridge. We must do this again some time, yes?’
Tiberius nodded, unsure of this glib tongued adept. And the more he thought about it, the more he suspected that Barzano had expected the attack on the Vae Victus. Why else would he have come to the bridge at this point, for a tour? And when things had suddenly exploded into deadly action, Barzano had certainly known his way about the bridge of a starship.
Sourly, he wondered what other surprises were in store for him on this voyage.
FIVE
THE OCTAGONAL SURGICAL chamber was cold, the breath of its occupants misted before them. The two figures in charge of the procedure moved with a silky elegant poise through the shadowed chamber. The light was kept low, as the Surgeon’s eyes were unaccustomed to brightness and it was widely reckoned that he did his best work in near-darkness anyway.
A channelled metal slab was bolted to the floor in the centre of the chamber, surrounded by arcane devices festooned with scalpel blades, long needles and bonesaws. The chamber’s third occupant, a naked human male, lay unmoving atop its cold surface. There were no restraints holding him there. The Surgeon needed total freedom of movement of the body in order to work and the drugs would keep the subject from moving.
The Surgeon had administered the precise amount to achieve such an effect, yet not so much as to prevent him from feeling something of the procedure.
Where was the art if the Honoured could feel nothing?
The Surgeon wore an anonymous red smock and pulled on thick, elbow length rubberised gloves, the fingers of which ended in delicate scalpels and clicking surgical instruments.
His assistant watched his fastidious preparations from the shadows with a mixture of languid boredom and reverence.
She had seen the Surgeon’s skill with his instruments many times before, and though me things he could do were wondrous, she was more interested in her own pleasures. The Surgeon nodded to her and she span, naked, towards the slab on her tiptoes, a wicked leer splitting her full red lips.
She gripped the edges of the table and pushed herself upwards and forwards, lifting her legs slowly until she was completely vertical. She walked astride the prone human on her hands then propelled herself into the air, twisting on the descent to land astride the figure.
She could see the fear of the procedure in his eyes and smiled to herself. It was always the fear that aroused her. Aroused her and repulsed her. That this human ape could think that she, who had learned the one thousand and nine Pleasures of the Dark, could actually enjoy this. Part of her was filled with self-loathing as she realised once again that she did, and it took an effort of will not to plunge her envenomed talons through his pleading eyes and into his broken mind. She shuddered, the man mistaking it for her pleasure, and leaned forwards, trailing her tongue along his exposed chest and feeling the skin pucker beneath her. She worked up to his neck and gently bit on the skin, her sharpened teeth penetrating his skin and tasting the bitter flavour of his bad blood.
He moaned as her teeth moved up his face, feathering razor kisses along the line of his jaw. Her long, blood red nails trailed up his ribs, leaving smoking, poisonous tracks in their wake. Her thighs tightened over his hips and she knew he was ready. The blood was singing in his rotten veins.
She looked over her shoulder and nodded to the Surgeon. Even though the human could not move, she sensed the terror rise up in him. The woman vaulted gracefully over his head, landing with a gymnast’s grace behind the slab, spitting the blood that coated her teeth onto the floor. The Surgeon pressed the first of his bladed digits against the man’s belly. Expertly, he opened him up, paring back the skin and muscle like the layers of an onion.
The Surgeon worked for another three hours, dextrously unravelling every centimetre of the man to the bone, laying
his flesh and organs open in gory ribbons of meat. How easy it would be to just continue with the opening and take it on to his skull, leaving him a screaming, fleshless skeleton. The temptation was great, but he resisted it, knowing that Archon Kesharq would visit a thousand times such misery on his own frame were he to let the kyerzak die too soon.
Humming alien machinery of rubber tubing, hissing bellows and gurgling bottles of blood surrounded the procedure, gently feeding the still-living cadaver with life preserving fluids. A loathsome metallic construction, like a serrated gallows, swung upwards and over the table, supporting a glossy, beetlelike organism that pulsed with rasping breath. Fine, chitinous black needles stretched from its distended belly and worked at each flensed slab of flesh. Moving too quickly to be seen by the naked eye,
they stripped diseased, stringy matter from each organ and hunk of meat, weaving new translucent strands of organic matter in their place.
As the throbbing, eyeless thing finished with each segment of flesh the Surgeon would gently lift it back onto the body and meticulously rework it onto the subject’s frame until he was once again whole.
Only the head remained unopened, his mouth moving in a soundless scream of pain and revulsion. The razor gallows lowered the glistening creature onto the man’s face, its fleshy underside undulating warmly over his skin. The black needles extended once more from its body, slithering across his cheeks and working their way into his skull through the nose, ears, mouth and eyes. Threads of agony wormed through his brain as each nerve, capillary and blood vessel was stripped out and renewed.
Finally it was done. The grossly swollen organism was lifted from the subject’s head and deposited on a wide metal tray at the end of the slab. The Surgeon lifted a narrow bonesaw as the creature began convulsing, its colour fading from lustrous black to a necrotic brown. Before it rotted away to nothing, the Surgeon split it across the thorax with the saw and removed a dripping yellow egg sac. It would be needed to grow another organism for the next time.
The Surgeon nodded to the naked woman who sashayed back to the slab and raised the man into a sitting position. His
movements were slow and awkward, but she knew that his discomfort would soon pass. He gathered his clothing and sullenly pulled a short, blue velvet pelisse with silver stitching around his shoulders. He picked up a bronze tipped ebony cane and painfully shuffled towards the chamber’s door.
Without turning, he snapped, ‘Well? Are you coming?’
She cocked her head to one side, her venomously beautiful features twisting into a sneer of contempt. He turned to face her, as though sensing her loathing of him.
His eyes locked on hers with a mixture of hatred and arousal and she could see from his beseeching eyes that he had suffered greatly. She was glad, and guessed that it would take at least six of the one thousand and nine Pleasures of the Dark to placate him this time.
It was such a shame that human understanding of such things was so limited.
SIX
URIEL RESTED HIS head against the thrumming internal wall of the gunship, his hands clasped in prayer before him as they began the final approach to Brandon Gate, the capital of Pavonis.
Every man under Uriel’s command sat in reverent silence, his thoughts directed to the glory that was the Emperor. At the far end of the crew compartment, Adept Ario Barzano sat with his small army of followers and Uriel shook his head slowly. How many servants did one man need?
All his years of training at the Agiselus barracks had hammered discipline and self-reliance into Uriel, and it was strange to see a man with someone to perform his every menial task for him. From the earliest age, children of Ultramar were taught to live a life of discipline, self-denial and simplicity.
Barzano was listening intently to the man he had introduced as Lortuen Perjed, nodding vigorously at whatever the old man was telling him. Adept Perjed was wagging his finger under Barzano’s nose as though he were giving him a stern lecture and for a second Uriel wondered exactly who was in charge.
He dismissed the adept from his thoughts and stared out of the thick viewing block set in the side of the gunship as the last filmy clouds vanished from sight and the primary continental mass of Pavonis was laid out before him like a map.
Uriel’s first impression of Pavonis was one of contrasts.
Amid the vast green and open landscape, dozens of sprawling manufactoram covered scores of square kilometres in all directions, complete with material bays, warehousing and transportation nodes to link them together. Vast cranes and yellow lifting machinery crawled through these industrial hubs, passed by lumbering rolling stock laden with fuel and supplies for the ever hungry forges. Smoke-belching cooling towers filled the air with clouds of vapour and a yellowish smog clung to the ground, coating the buildings in a filthy ochre residue.
But ahead of them, further out from the manufactorum and set amid a swathe of forest at the foot of some high mountains, Uriel could see a well-designed estate of white stone buildings and guessed that this must belong to the one of the ruling cartels that oversaw production on Pavonis. The Thunderhawk passed over the estate, startling a herd of lithe, horned beasts and passing close enough for Uriel to make out the marble columned entrance of the largest building.
The estate was soon lost to sight as the gunship roared along the line of a fast flowing river and, as the gunship rounded a rocky bluff, Uriel could see the marble city of Brandon Gate on the horizon. The gunship gained altitude and gave the city a slow circuit, allowing Uriel to look down into the star-shaped city below him. Clustered round its defensive, arrowhead bastions, black and smoking manufactorum towns sweltered and bustled in the day’s heat while the interior of the city lay indolent and relaxed within, the polished white marble of the buildings radiant in the midday sunshine.
The architecture of the city was comprised of a mixture of old and new: ancient, millennia old structures abutting steel and glass domes and crystal towers. The streets were cobbled, lined with statuary and tall trees.
At the centre of the conglomeration of marble and glass lay the Imperial palace of the governor of Pavonis. A wide
cobbled square stretched before the palace gates, its circumference marked by yet more statuary. The palace itself rose high above the streets below, its white towers and crenellated battlements designed in the High Gothic styling popular several thousand years ago. Bronze flying buttresses supported a massive fluted bell tower embellished with a conical roof of beaten gold and studded with precious stones.
Uriel could see from the bell’s great, rocking motion that it was tolling, but could not hear it over the roaring of the Thunderhawk’s engines.
The many buildings that made up the palace complex stretched over a huge area, encompassing a leafy park, athletics pavilion and a small lake. It was clear that the rulers of Pavonis liked to live well. How much, Uriel wondered, would they be willing to sacrifice in order to keep such a state of affairs? How much might they have already sacrificed?
In addition to the aesthetics of the palace, Uriel’s practiced eye took in the many gun emplacements worked cunningly into the building’s structure and the entrances to underground launch bays. The palace, and indeed the entire central city, would be a formidable bastion to hold in the event of an insurrection or war.
The gunship began slowing and descending towards the blinking lights of a landing platform set within a ring of tall trees just outside the palace walls. A small observation building arid fuel tank, protected by raised blast shielding, sat at its edge.
Uriel snapped his fist against the release mechanism of his restraint harness as their altitude dropped to ten metres, the rest of the Space Marines following suit, and snatched his boltgun from its housing.
Pasanius and Learchus stalked the length of the crew compartment as the green disembarkation lamp began flashing.
‘Everybody up! Be ready to debark, secure the perimeter.’
While the sergeants prepared the men for landing, Uriel knelt before the small shrine set in the alcove next to his captain’s chair and bowed his head, speaking the Prayer of Battle and Catechism of the Warrior. He gripped the hilt of his bequeathed power sword and rose to stand at the head of the armoured crew ramp at the front of the gunship.
With a decompressive hiss and squeal of hydraulics, the ramp quickly lowered, slamming onto the landing platform. Even before it was fully down, the two squads of Ultramarines swept out from the gunship and moved to perimeter defence positions. Their bolters were held at the ready as their helmeted heads scanned left and right for possible threats.
‘My goodness, they’re keen aren’t they?’ clapped Barzano over the shrieking of the Thunderhawk’s engines as they powered down.
Pasanius hefted his massive flamer as Uriel rolled his eyes
and marched down the crew ramp after Barzano.
As the blast shields at the platform’s edge lowered, a plump, red-faced man dressed in the plain black robes of an adept and carrying a geno-keypad emerged from the observation building.
An entire squad of bolters turned on the man, who squealed and threw his hands up before him.
‘Wait! Don’t shoot!’ he pleaded. ‘I’m here to meet Adept Barzano!’
Barzano, Lortuen and Uriel stepped onto the platform as two Ultramarines moved to flank the man and escort him towards their captain. The man was sweating profusely, dwarfed by the armoured giants either side of him.
Barzano stepped forward to greet the florid-faced man, extending one hand and placing the other on his fellow adept’s shoulder.
‘You must be Adept Ballion Varle. Good morning to you, sir. You already know me, Ario Barzano, we don’t need to go over that, but these fine fellows are from the Ultramarines.’
Barzano guided Varle towards Uriel and waved a hand towards Uriel in a comradely gesture. ‘This is Captain Uriel Ventris and he’s in charge of them. They’ve come to make sure that everything here goes swimmingly and hopefully put the kibosh on some of the troubles you’ve been having here, yes?’
Adept Ballion Varle nodded, still looking up in wonder at the expressionless faces of the Space Marines’ helmets, and Uriel doubted he was taking in more than one word in three that Barzano was saying.
Barzano slipped his arm over Ballion’s shoulder and pressed his thumb onto the geno-keypad the trembling adept carried. The machine clicked and chattered, finally chiming with a soft jingle. Varle managed to tear his eyes from the giant warriors and glanced at the keypad.
‘Well, at least you know that I’m no impostor,’ smiled Barzano. ‘You received my message then?’
‘Ah, yes, adept. I did, though to be honest, its contents were rather confusing.’
‘Not to worry though, eh? Everything will sort itself out, no need to fret.’
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