Volos wasn’t surprised to hear that. He couldn’t imagine the administrative contortions that would officially grant Setheno the authority she appeared to possess. Sisters of Battle, like the Space Marines, were warriors, not rulers. But he could well imagine one hierarch after another humbled by her implacable presence.
‘I am confident,’ Setheno continued, ‘that I can have the inquiry limited to your company and the Antagonis action. Inquisitor Lettinger is a Monodominant and he is young, and so the cooler, more senior heads in the ordo will be open to mechanisms that will keep him from going too far, too quickly. However, if you resist, then you will spread this problem to the rest of the Chapter, and the investigation will be into the deepest core of the Black Dragons. The question you will face will not be whether this company has acquired a taint, but whether the Chapter is corrupt in its essence.’
‘You don’t think Lettinger already believes that? You don’t think he will seek to broaden the terms of his mission?’
‘I’m sure he does, and I’m sure he’ll try. That doesn’t mean he will succeed. Particularly if my presence here adds the Ecclesiarchy’s imprimatur to the proceedings.’
Vritras was silent for a few moments. ‘I do find it curious,’ he finally said, ‘that someone of your reputation in the Ecclesiarchy should be offering advice on how best to thwart the Inquisition.’
‘Don’t misunderstand me, captain. With my every breath, I do what will best serve the Emperor. There, and only there, is where my loyalty lies.’
‘And I take it that you do not believe we are possessed by doubtworm.’
‘I know you are not.’
Vritras raised his eyebrows. ‘You know this how?’
‘Because of the nature of doubtworm. However complex an organism it becomes, and however sophisticated it appears to be once it makes use of its human host, it is, at its most basic level, very simple. Its attacks are narrowly targeted, but effective. It exploits the nature of faith, and one very specific doubt. The worm’s message to its victims is that the Emperor does not exist.’
Volos thought of the childish ranting he had experienced inside the worm.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Massorus said.
‘Of course it is, but remember that to have faith in something is, by definition, to lack proof. Faith is a spiritual wager, not a certainty. To believe is to open the door for doubt. To believe is not to know, and the vast majority of humans, especially civilians, never have any direct knowledge of the Emperor. Thus, they can doubt. You are Adeptus Astartes, and are therefore immune to this attack.’
‘You are implying that we have no faith,’ Massorus said, outraged.
‘Not at all. You have faith in each other, in your captain, in the Chapter, in the all-knowing wisdom of the God-Emperor. But you do not need faith in his existence. You know he exists. Your own being is proof of his. He is not just your Emperor. He is your ultimate progenitor. Even the Traitor Legions are incapable of this doubt. They would have nothing to betray, otherwise.’
Vritras leaned forward. ‘You could, of course, make this very convincing argument to the Inquisition on our behalf.’
‘The name of my ship is not Act of Charity. It is Act of Clarity. I have told you what I will do.’
‘You can do no more, or you refuse to try?’
‘I serve the Emperor.’ She picked up her helm. ‘I will return to my ship for now,’ she said. ‘Though I have faith that we will be seeing much more of each other in the days ahead.’ She turned to go.
Volos blinked. Had she just made a joke? Again, he couldn’t tell. Her face and tone remained stripped of any readable emotion.
Either way, Vritras wasn’t laughing. ‘One question, canoness, with your permission.’
She stopped and waited.
‘You, also, seem to be immune to doubtworm. How is this possible?’
‘I do not suffer from illusions,’ she answered, and left.
Her phrasing struck Volos as odd. There was a precision that was strategic, that said more than the surface meaning of the words. He watched the door to the strategium close behind her. Friend or foe? he wondered. Somehow, the former seemed the greater threat.
The sounds of a massive body slamming against metal echoed down the corridor to Toharan as he made his way toward the training cage. His Lyman’s Ear parsed the sounds, telling him that there was only one Dragon exercising, and how big that Space Marine was. The analysis was easy: Volos shadow-sparring. Good. Toharan could use some one-on-one practice, too. He needed to work off some of the tension from the Antagonis action.
Perhaps it hadn’t been a defeat. Perhaps there had never been a victory to be had. But there was something bitter in his gut. He couldn’t get the sight of Bethshea transforming out his head. He wasn’t sure why this, of all the sights on Antagonis, bothered him the most, even more than the death of Aperos. The fact of his having been so wrong about the mission rankled, but there was no reason why he should feel particular shame.
He hadn’t been the only one mistaken. Setheno herself hadn’t known, even if she had suspected, until almost too late. And yet, having been wrong, having what he knew to be true become false, grated like tyranid claws on his soul. For some reason, every time he thought about that moment in the courtyard, he also thought about Werner Lettinger’s obscene suggestion to him. The two scenes were locked in his mind in a poisonous symbiosis, and he didn’t know why, and he wanted them out. So he picked up the pace. He would sweat them out, and, if need be, bruise them out. He could certainly count on Volos for that.
He was almost at the end of the corridor, the battle cage arena opening up before him. He could see Volos, clad in a loin cloth, working through the steps of his form. Then a voice said, ‘Are you alone, brother-sergeant?’
‘I am, brother-captain,’ Volos said.
Instinct brought Toharan to a halt. He stepped back, keeping to the shadows of the corridor. He waited, motionless, while Bethshea leaped and transformed again and again, and Lettinger whispered.
Vritras stepped in front of the cage. ‘A moment of your time?’
‘Of course.’ Volos grabbed a towel as he left the cage.
‘Your actions against the worm will see you in song yet,’ Vritras said.
Volos shrugged. ‘Not a song I would choose to hear.’
‘Do you so dislike being honoured?’
‘My duty is my honour.’
Vritras bowed slightly. ‘Well said. In that case, I have come to ask you to take on a new duty.’
Volos stopped moving. Then he folded the towel very slowly, as if delaying something unpleasant. ‘My arm is always ready to serve the Chapter,’ he said, and Toharan thought he heard wariness in the sergeant’s tone.
‘You heard about Brother-Sergeant Aperos,’ Vritras said.
Volos bowed his head. ‘He has earned his rest.’
‘He has indeed. But now I find myself without a first-sergeant.’
Silence. Both warriors let it stretch. Vritras’s silence made his meaning clear. Volos’s seemed more like evasion. A vein in Toharan’s temple began to throb. Finally, Volos spoke. ‘You wish me to take command of Squad Nychus?’
‘I do. I want you at my side, brother-sergeant.’
Again, Volos took his time answering. Standing stock still, a hulking dark shape with grey, reptile skin and hellish horns, he had never looked, Toharan thought, so much like a statue, so much like a gargoyle. And at the back of his mind, another word lurked: daemon. Toharan quashed the word before it could fully surface.
‘You do me a great honour,’ Volos said at length.
‘And you would do me a greater one by accepting it,’ Vritras answered.
‘Brother-captain, I am bonded to the Dragon Claws in ways that are difficult to explain to an outsider, and forgive me for using that term. We have a shared condition.’ He raised an arm and briefly extended a bone-blade. ‘We are Dragon Claws because, of all the members of our Chapter, we are the most…’
‘Deformed, I was going to say, and I do so with a certain pride. We are the most monstrous of those who retain their sanity. That monstrosity gives us a shared purpose. We bless the curse, and our individual quests for purity of service are fused with an even greater collective one. I cannot imagine breaking that.’
‘Everything you have just said is no less true of the rest of our brotherhood,’ Vritras chided.
Volos hung his head. ‘My apologies. I spoke with hubris and selfishness, and I spoke badly.’ He hesitated. ‘And now I’m going to speak badly again. There is, around the position of first-sergeant, an aura of… grooming.’
‘That’s true,’ Vritras nodded. ‘To name a Black Dragon first-sergeant is to declare him captain material.’
‘And I am not that. I know my limits as a commander. I neither seek, nor am fit, for higher leadership. Have you spoken to Toharan? He–’
‘I didn’t make this request lightly,’ Vritras said.
‘I don’t refuse it lightly, if it is a request. If it is an order, then…’
Vritras shook his head. ‘I won’t compel you. Will you at least think it over?’
‘That would be an insult to you and to the honour, when I already know what my answer would be. Thank you, brother-captain, but I cannot accept.’
‘You disappoint me, brother, but I will respect your conviction.’ He held out his hand.
‘My sword is eternally yours to command,’ Volos said, and they clasped forearms.
‘And it is my privilege to do so.’
Vritras left. Volos stood alone, and shadows seemed to flow from him as he meditated. Then he climbed back into the cage.
Toharan turned and walked back down the corridor. He moved quietly. The pounding in his temple was worse. It was hard not to hit the wall with the same rhythm.
The shuttle left the Viper-class scout Dominion of Grace. Lettinger watched through the viewport as his ship grew smaller with distance. It would be some time, he knew, before he would revisit its clean lines and sober décor. He was sending it away, to his base in the Marat system. Vritras had no right to deny him full access to the Immolation Maw, especially not now, but Lettinger also wanted it physically difficult for Vritras to deny him boarding rights. So he had taken the steps that would make the Dragons ship his home.
He moved to the other side of the shuttle and stared at the growing hulls of the Immolation Maw and the Act of Clarity. They rested at high anchor and in close parallel. Canoness Setheno’s ship, which was also about to lose its owner, was of a manufacture that Lettinger didn’t recognise. He suspected it was a Mechanicus-modified variant of the Cobra-class destroyer. Just less than a kilometre long, it was about the right size for a Cobra, but it was much sleeker. It was a grey, merciless stiletto of a craft, its profile so narrow, its colours so muted and light-absorbing, that it was hard, even this close, to see it clearly against the stars. Lettinger had no such difficulty with the Maw. Over four times the size of the Clarity, the strike cruiser was an ugly, brutal, clawed fist, its outgrowths of flying buttresses and weapon turrets a reflection of the deformed warriors who made it home. It was a ship with a very high degree of long-term self-sufficiency. It would have to be. It had no home base, and outside the zones of their frequent operations, the welcome the Dragons found was frequently frosty.
The citizens of the Imperium knew corruption when they encountered it, Lettinger thought. It was time, through his agency, that this wisdom be confirmed.
He thought about his vox conversation with Proctor Toqueville. There had been some disappointments. One was the limit to his inquiry.
‘Only this company?’ he had asked.
‘That’s correct.’
‘It should be the whole Chapter.’
‘Work with what you have there, inquisitor ordinary. Find the guilt in Second Company, and that thread that will take us to the taint of the rest.’
‘But why begin with such a limitation?’
‘Because, thanks to your diligence, the Antagonis events give us the evidence needed to investigate the Second, but only the Second.’
The rationale struck Lettinger as weak, and the limited parameters of the investigation were uncharacteristically conservative by the standards of the Ordo Malleus. He thought he could detect the stench of political manoeuvring, and his eyes turned again to the Act of Clarity. The Canoness Errant was not the ally he had expected. He couldn’t understand why this was so. Her motivations baffled him, and he could make even less sense of her actions. He shrugged. He now had the tools he needed to purge the Adeptus Astartes of this tainted growth.
As the shuttle banked toward the talons and fangs of the Immolation Maw, Lettinger caught a flash of starlight off another approaching craft. It was a grubby-looking civilian freighter. He didn’t know what business it had here. He couldn’t imagine anything good.
CHAPTER 8
PURITY AND HONOUR
The surface of Antagonis had been so transformed, for a moment Tennesyn thought the trader had taken him to the wrong system. But the coordinates were correct, and after staring hard and long through the armourglass of the bridge’s occulus, Tennesyn could make out enough echoes of familiar land masses to know that this was indeed where he had paid to be taken.
‘Are you sure this is your destination?’ asked Loran Tinburne, captain of the Trade Sail. ‘We could try again. We could leave. Now.’ An immense shadow in the form of a Space Marine strike cruiser was closing on them.
Tennesyn gave him a weak smile. ‘This is the place,’ he said sadly. He looked at the cruiser turrets aimed their way. ‘Besides, I really don’t think we can leave. Do you?’
The Trade Sail’s vox-operator looked up. ‘Message from the Immolation Maw,’ she said. Her voice was very small. ‘Heave to and prepare to be boarded.’
Tinburne took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded. He looked close to frightened tears.
Ten minutes later, there were night-clad giants on the bridge, and Tinburne was weeping while Tennesyn explained that it was he who had sought passage to Antagonis. ‘I really didn’t know anything this serious had happened,’ he said, gesturing at the transformed planet. ‘I was only just here, and–’
‘When was that?’ one of the Space Marines interrupted.
‘A week ago.’
The silence that followed was not reassuring.
And then, while the captain and crew of the Trade Sail joyfully fled to anywhere that wasn’t Antagonis, the giants marched Tennesyn through the corridors of the Immolation Maw. They passed through one gothic arch after another, down passageways lined with veined, marble-like stone. It was a deep, green-black in colour and had a texture that reminded the xeno-archaeologist of a reptile’s hide.
Tennesyn wasn’t a big man, and he felt like a child as he struggled to keep up with the pace of his escort. He didn’t even reach the shoulders of the giants. They had barely glanced at him since taking him into custody, and he was grateful for that small mercy. Their black eyes were coldness and war, and there was precious little human in the way they evaluated him. They weren’t wearing their helmets, and he wished they were. The grey skin and bone crests reminded him too much of things he had seen in fossil records. On their journey through the ship, they crossed paths with an even bigger warrior, the most saurian of them all. He was the flesh embodiment of his armour’s livery. He made Tennesyn feel like a thing of twigs, so easy to snap and burn.
They took him to the strategium overlooking the bridge and left him there in the company of three figures who made Tennesyn wonder into what hell he had fallen. He faced the captain of the Space Marines, sitting on his command throne, and two humans. Tennesyn couldn’t see the face of the man clearly, but the hooded robes and silver electoos marked him as Inquisition. The woman was a warrior of the Ecclesiarchy, and the chill of her expressionless face made Tennesyn long for the comparative warmth of his escort of Dragons. Of the three, Tennesyn found i
t easiest to keep his eyes on the inquisitor, and there was a sign of a day that wasn’t going well. He was also aware of tension in the room that had nothing to do with him, and he resolved to keep it that way.
But then there were those last words Bisset had shouted to him: Bring back help. The terrors before him were that help. So after they told him who they were, which did his confidence no good at all, and they asked him who he was and what he was doing here, he spoke about Aighe Mortis. But though they listened, the detail they jumped on was the date of his departure from Antagonis.
‘There was no plague when you left?’ Inquisitor Lettinger asked sharply.
‘Plague?’ Tennesyn asked. ‘No, there was nothing wrong at all.’
The trio exchanged a look.
‘Incubation stage?’ Vritras asked.
Setheno stepped forward and took Tennesyn’s chin in one armoured hand. She tilted his head up to face hers. He stared into golden eyes that reduced him to his itemised component parts. ‘I don’t think so,’ Setheno said. ‘His return would make no sense.’ She pulled the chain around his neck, drawing out his aquila. ‘Then there’s this.’
‘Congratulations, Scholar Tennesyn,’ Vritras said, and there was a welcome shade of humour in his tone. ‘You have just avoided execution.’
Setheno released him, and Tennesyn tried to swallow. He found that he couldn’t. ‘Will you please tell me what has happened here?’ he asked. ‘Everything was going so well just before I left, and the cardinal was pleased. I can’t believe–’
‘Cardinal?’ Setheno said.
Tennesyn nodded. ‘Cardinal Nessun,’ he said, and the temperature in the room plunged ten degrees. ‘Why?’ he croaked. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Excommunicate Traitoris,’ Lettinger hissed.
‘No…’
The Death of Antagonis Page 9