But that had been some centuries ago. The Imperium was a vast and constantly changing place and cycles of poverty and wealth, fame and obscurity, churned between the stars. The Trail of St. Evisser was all but forgotten now, just another band of worlds where billions of Imperial citizens lived out their lives. The population, Alaric saw, had fallen to about a quarter of its high point. The hive world of Volcanis Ultor was half-empty and whole agri-worlds were lying fallow. It seemed that religious fervour had at last waned and allowed warp routes to be forged that bypassed the Trail entirely. Shipping through the Trail was a fraction of what it had once been and St. Evisser himself was little more than a name.
The Grey Knights strike cruiser Rubicon was a fast ship. Even so, it would take weeks to reach the Trail. Ligeia had sent an astropathic message to the Inquisition fortress which had jurisdiction over the Trail, but for now there was little to do but pray, train, and wait.
Alaric and Ligeia met regularly in the Rubicon’s state rooms, a complex of lavish hardwood panelled suites that could have come from inside a governor’s mansion were it not for the lack of windows and the constant deep thrum of the strike cruiser’s warp engines.
“What do you remember,” asked Ligeia one evening after Alaric had seen to the Grey Knights’ training rites, “of what you were before?”
Alaric, his armour removed, sat opposite Ligeia wearing his dark grey habit. Ligeia had set out her customary evening meal of exotic delicacies from worlds on the other side of the Imperium, but Alaric as usual ate little. “Nothing,” he said.
“Nothing?” Ligeia raised an eyebrow. “I find that difficult to believe. It is what I did before I ever heard of the Inquisition that made me the inquisitor I am now.”
“A Grey Knight must have a core of faith that cannot be broken.” Alaric picked at the daemonfish fillets on the silver plate in front of him—truth be told, he was uncomfortable amongst the luxury with which Ligeia surrounded herself. “Like a rock in an ocean. That’s the first thing we learn, although none of us remember learning it. You understand, we cannot know what it is like not to have that shield of faith. If we could remember it, that core would be flawed. There would be a way in. There is no room to remember for us.”
Ligeia leaned forward, a faint smile on her face. She looked almost girlish, like a child swapping secrets with a friend. “But you used to be someone else, Alaric. Do you know who?”
Alaric shook his head. “That was a different person. The Ordo Malleus has the most advanced psycho-doctrination in the Imperium. It leaves nothing behind. I could have been a hive ganger or some tribal hunter, or anything else. The Chapter recruits from hundreds of planets of all kinds. Whoever I was, I was taken before adolescence and made into someone else.”
Ligeia took a sip of wine. “It sounds like a high price to pay.”
Alaric looked at her. He knew she was playing with him. She had an insatiable curiosity and the Grey Knights were one more area of study. “There is no price too high,” he said. “If we don’t do it, then no one will. Chaos is always a hair’s breadth away from swallowing us all and losing a flawed mind is no hardship compared to the consequences if we fail.”
“I must confess,” said Ligeia, “we fight in very different ways.”
“I understand you were not originally recruited by the Ordo Malleus,” said Alaric, satisfying some of his own curiosity. “From what I know of the Inquisition, that is not common.”
“I was recruited into the staff of the Ordo Hereticus fortress on Gathalamor.” Ligeia dissected her own daemonfish expertly as she spoke, and Alaric imagined the education she must have received to make it such a reflex. He was mildly surprised that such a free-minded woman could emerge from the stifling nobility of Gathalamor. “I was more useful than they realised. As a psyker I can discern information in whatever form it is written. The Ordo Malleus… made me an offer, and I accepted. There was some resistance, but the Malleus has its ways.” She gave him an odd, sideways smile.
“Resistance? I know even less about the Inquisition than I suspected.”
“Probably deliberately, justicar. Our politics can be very complicated and you are not a politician, you are a weapon. You don’t need to know about our various factions and infighting—they are all mostly matters of pride and dogma, but believe me that men like Valinov are more common than any of us would admit.”
“You are very open,” said Alaric. Out of politeness he swallowed a slice of the daemonfish—it tasted rich and spicy, a world away from the balanced but tasteless sludge synthesised for the Grey Knights on Titan. He didn’t like it. Eating like this was an affectation, a show of pride. Enough Space Marines had fallen to pride for Alaric to find the whole idea distasteful.
“I trust you, justicar.” Ligeia replied. “We rely on one another. You cannot negotiate an investigation and I certainly cannot fight, so what can we do but trust each other?”
Ligeia had brought her death cultist bodyguards with her—they stood there now, in the shadowy corners of Ligeia’s suite, wearing shiny black bodygloves and masks and carrying dozens of blades between them. They were highly-trained and bound somehow to Ligeia personally; with their help Alaric doubted very much that Ligeia could not hold her own when the bullets started to fly.
A chime sounded over the Rubicon’s vox-casters, indicating the arrival of an astropathic message. The astropaths used by the Grey Knights were little more than ciphers, men and women mind-wiped after each mission so they could recall no sensitive information. The voice that spoke was dim and grey.
“Astropathic duct established. Inquisition fortress firepots asserts jurisdiction, requests itinerary, manifest and mission.”
Ligeia stood up, smoothed her long dark blue dress and snapped her fingers, calling a trundling valet-servitor forward to clean away the remains of the feast. She wiped her fingers clean on a napkin, another affectation since she had used only silver cutlery. “We have almost arrived. I’m afraid some of those politics I mentioned come into play now, justicar. The Ordo Hereticus inquisitors watching over the Trail of St. Evisser are based at the fortress on Trepytos and there pre protocols to be followed if I am to act freely within their jurisdiction.”
“I will tell my men we will arrive shortly.”
“Good. Have them spick and span, justicar, a force of gleaming Grey Knights will do no harm in getting us a free reign here.”
Alaric gave her a look. “My Marines observe their wargear rites constantly, inquisitor.”
Ligeia smiled back at him. “Of course. Now if you will excuse me, they will need me on the bridge.”
Another snap of the fingers, and Ligeia’s death cultists prowled out of the shadows to follow her as an honour guard, six black-clad assassins who moved with feline precision and always had one hand on the pommel of a blade. Their faces were covered with masks, featureless except for eyeholes. Alaric could appreciate the intimidating effect they could have. Not for the first time he wondered where Ligeia had got them—they were hardly the affectation of an aristocratic lady.
For the briefest moment, Alaric found himself wondering who he had once been. There had been a child once, who had been taken away by a chaplain of the Grey Knights or a Black Ship of the Inquisition, and who was erased from existence by endless sessions of psycho-doctrination. What could he have been, if not a Grey Knight?
He would have been nothing compared to Alaric now. That was what he had been told, and what he had always believed. He chased the thought from his mind and headed back to the training decks to muster his battle-brothers.
The Rubicon was the finest ship to dock at the planet Trepytos for several hundred years. It was a shining gunmetal grey with protective prayers wrought into the hull in gold. It was a heavily modified version of the strike cruisers used by the Space Marines of the Adeptus Astartes, with an enlarged drop-pod bay, heavily reinforced quarters for Inquisition personnel and a comprehensive hexagrammic ward network built into every strut and bulkhead.
/> The fortress on Trepytos, on the other hand, had seen far better days. It was an impressive dark granite castle, with its fearsome battlements concealing planetary defence lasers and orbital missile bays. Beneath it was the Inquisition stronghold from which the Ordo Hereticus watched over the Trail of St. Evisser. Around it were massed the decaying suburbs of what had once been the wealthy and exclusive fortress city from which the aristocracy of the Trail had watched over the officer classes of the guard and navy and the ranks of the Ecclesiarchy.
Trepytos had been the seat of authority for much of the Trail, but now it was in decay. The decline of St. Evisser’s worship had hit the planet worse than most. Elegant countryside, preserved for the benefit of noble houses who liked to hunt and adventure, now ran wild and encroached on the rotting cities. The population survived in enclaves, and the Ordo Hereticus presence was like a ghost in the lofty, half-abandoned fortress.
The Rubicon dropped into low orbit where the fortress’s docking spire punched through the planet’s grimy grey clouds. Docking clamps sealed and, as the cruiser refuelled, Inquisitor Ligeia, her bodyguards, and Justicar Alaric descended by dignitary shuttle to see what state the Trail of St. Evisser was in after hundreds of years of decay.
Inquisitor Lamerrian Klaes waited for them in the draughty, cavernous assembly hall in the heart of the Trepytos fortress. The hall had once seated audiences of hundreds in banks of seats but there was no one else there now. A giant pict-screen was folded up against the ceiling, wrapped in black fabric and gathering dust. Once the hall had been used to assemble the elite of the Trail to hear their concerns or issue Inquisitorial edicts—now it was so frequently quiet and empty that it was as good a place as any in the fortress to discuss sensitive matters. The only part of the hall that was lit was the very centre, where a semicircle of databanks and cogitators stood shedding a pale greenish light. This was where Inquisitor Klaes worked, and in spite of the small staff and garrison that ran the fortress he effectively worked alone.
Klaes was a thin, angular, harried man who looked more like an Administratum adept than an inquisitor. Were it not for the engraved power sword at his waist and the Inquisition seal around his neck, he could have been just another one of the billions of pen pushers that kept the Imperium wrapped up in red tape.
Alaric and Ligeia were led in by the Hereticus storm troopers of the fortress’s garrison. Klaes, surrounded by monitor screens and reams of printouts in the centre of the hall, looked up in annoyance at their entrance. When he saw Alaric, he straightened in surprise. Ligeia had been right, of course—Alaric, nearly three metres tall in his massive polished power armour, was a usefully impressive sight.
“Inquisitor Ligeia,” he said in a sharp and surprisingly strong voice, standing to greet her. “I have been expecting you.”
He nodded at Alaric, “Justicar.” Alaric nodded back. Klaes had not been expecting the Grey Knights.
“I fear we have arrived at a time when you are overwhelmed.” Ligeia indicated the screens and the printouts. The screens were displaying pict-stealer recordings, columns of statistics, and reams of texts. The printouts were spooling onto the floor.
“Information is our lifeblood, inquisitor,” said Klaes. “Even these days the Trail of St. Evisser creates a lot of it. I am the only one here with the authority to do anything about what he sees, so I have to see it all.”
“Then we will need to work closely, Inquisitor Klaes,” said Ligeia. She walked over to Klaes’s nest of screens and cogitators and ran one of the spooling printouts through her fingers. “We have reason to believe there is a daemonic threat emerging or due to emerge somewhere on the Trail. It is my job to find it and, with the help of Justicar Alaric and his men, to destroy it.”
Klaes walked up to Alaric. Alaric saw a heraldic crest on Klaes’s sword and wondered which noble house had owed Klaes so much they had given him one of their heirlooms.
Klaes held out a hand to shake, and Alaric took it. “Justicar, a rare pleasure. I have heard of the Grey Knights but here in the Hereticus details are scarce. Welcome to the Trail of St. Evisser, for what that is worth.”
“There isn’t much to tell, inquisitor,” said Alaric, slightly uncomfortable with diplomacy. “Our purpose is simple. We are soldiers, and we need support just like any soldier.”
“Of course. But you understand…” here Klaes turned to Ligeia, “the Trail has fallen a very long way. I am the sole permanent Inquisitorial presence for the whole of the Trail and the resources of this fortress are limited. I can call upon the Adeptus Arbites, who are far more numerous than the Hereticus troops, but they are quite embattled themselves. They effectively rule several of the planets after the nobility took flight. There are no Space Marines who would answer my call when Abaddon is killing his way through the Cadian Gate. I will give you what help I can, but the Trail is very much on the wane and if it is to rise again, I fear you will have to wait a very long time.”
“Time is exactly what we don’t have,” said Ligeia. “I will need access to all your reports of cult or otherwise suspect activity. I need details. Interviews with the investigators if possible. I am afraid I need complete access, too. Total jurisdiction.”
“Many of my interrogators are in deep cover and I cannot withdraw them at such short notice. Most of the rest I could make available but I will be undoing many Hereticus protocols and I will have to answer to the sector Conclave. I would need to know what threat you are investigating.”
“Hmm.” Ligeia thought for a moment. “If you are willing to ignore protocol then so am I. The creature we are hunting is known to some as Ghargatuloth. Justicar Alaric will be able to tell the story better than I. Justicar, if you will?”
Alaric was not expecting to turn storyteller. But he supposed Ligeia was right—to the Grey Knights the story of Grand Master Mandulis and the Prince of a Thousand Faces was almost a religious parable, an exemplar of the Grey Knights’ sacrifice and the supernatural evil they were sworn to face.
Alaric told Inquisitor Klaes the story of the death of Mandulis and the banishment of Ghargatuloth, telling it the same way the chaplains had told it to him when he was a novice still in awe of what he would become.
When he had finished, Inquisitor Klaes sat down in front of his screen and watched them for a few moments, columns of figures streaming past his eyes.
“Our records are in a sorry state,” he began. “The Adeptus Mechanicus withdrew lexmechanic support two hundred years ago. I have had interrogators try to disentangle it but we have only made limited headway.”
“If you’d had me, inquisitor, there would not have been a problem. Information is my speciality.”
“Good, then you will know everything we know. I will put you in touch with Provost Marechal, he’s the highest level Arbites contact. He won’t thank me for making him available to you but make sure he understands the authority you carry and he’ll give you all the help he can. I can offer you berthings for your ship here and anywhere else on the Trail with the facilities to handle a strike cruiser, not that there are many. I’ll have the fortress staff prepare rooms for you, and the justicar can have access to the barracks, they’re half empty anyway.”
Ligeia smiled graciously, something Alaric saw she was good at. “I am glad you understand the importance of our mission here, inquisitor. I shall need to begin immediately, I shall bring my staff down from the Rubicon and start work in your records.”
“I’ll assign you a guide,” said Klaes. “I’m afraid, given the state of the fortress, you’ll need it.”
Inquisitor Klaes had two hundred staff at the fortress, mostly drawn from the Administratum and the Adeptus Arbites, as well as the three hundred Hereticus storm troopers in the garrison. The fortress archives were administered by a small cadre of ex-Administratum archivists and researchers, whose skill with the immensely complex bureaucracy of the Imperium meant they were better than most at dealing with the vast collection of information the Trail had generated.
“The Adeptus Mechanicus maintained it at first,” the archivist was saying. She was a young, harried-looking woman with skin pale from too little sunlight and a drab Administratum uniform. “But without their lexmechanics it was impossible to collate it all properly. We have Arbites’ reports, astropathic monitoring, interrogation transcripts, everything from the Trail. We try to sort out the important information from the rest and archive it properly, but so much slips through that might be important and as you know, inquisitor…”
“…our work lies in the details,” said Ligeia. “How many rooms like this are there?” Ligeia indicated the vault they were standing in, where dozens of ceiling-high bookshelves exuded the musty smell of decaying paper.
“Seventeen,” said the archivist. “We think. The intact ones go back to the prime of the Trail. There are some vaults that were lost to flooding and twenty years ago a nest of rats ate their way through hundreds of books. And we’re always finding new places where records were kept because the archive rooms became too full.”
“I shall need to look at your organised records,” said Ligeia, removing her velvet gloves and feeling the word-heavy air tingling against her skin. “I shall require any information you have on active or defunct heretic cults. Give particular priority to apocalyptic sects. Find out if there are any survivors imprisoned on the Trail. I shall start here.”
“Of course, inquisitor,” said the archivist, unable to completely hide the bemusement from her voice.
Ligeia held out her hands as the archivist left. She could feel the weight of meaning in the vault, most of it stodgy and grey with irrelevance. But there were seams of violence and heresy running through it like veins in marble. The faint echo of the Trail’s fallen splendour reached her—though the Trail was still home to billions of Imperial citizens it had in truth been dying for some time, and it mourned the loss of its celebrated piety and wealth. War had touched the Trail where nations or planets tried to gain independence from the Imperial yoke, and when legions of men and women had left to fight in the wars that constantly raged around the Imperium.
[Grey Knights 01] - Grey Knights Page 6