03 - Savage Scars

by Andy Hoare - (ebook by Undead)

  “Lucian?” Sarik began, the rogue trader sensing something unusual in the Space Marine’s tone. “What is your present position?”

  Lucian halted, looking around for a landmark. Imperial Guard troopers, battered and bloody, trudged past him in long files, many fully laden with what weapons and equipment they could evacuate with them. An entire heavy weapons company was passing through the breach the Space Marines had made in the bunker line, which had been widened and made safe by Munitorum pioneers. “I’m at phase point nine-zero,” he said, using the term the Tacticae planners had coined for the outer perimeter of the star port. “Why?”

  “I’m five hundred metres north east of your position,” said Sarik, ignoring Lucian’s question. “Get here, now.”

  What now, Lucian thought, drawing his plasma pistol and checking the charge. It was down to ten per cent. His power armour was scratched and scored, much of its surface black with carbonisation and soot. He was fatigued and thirsty, and well in need of rest, yet he loosened his power sword in its scabbard as he pushed through the lines of the Imperial Guard troopers flooding in the opposite direction. Many cast him irritated glances as he forced his way on, but many others wore vacant and shell-shocked expressions that spoke of the ferocity of the battle they had just faced.

  Clearing the breach in the bunker line, Lucian located the direction Sarik had indicated, and hurried towards it as fast as he could manage. His power armour lent him some strength at least, though not much more than it took to bear its own weight. The suit had served him well, but it would need much attention to restore its war spirit to its full vitality once this was over.

  He passed along a wide boulevard, its surface caked with a dried paste made from the blackened remains of the alien carnivores. To one side he saw a pair of Space Marine Apothecaries, one from the Novamarines, the other from the White Scars, recovering the scattered body and armour parts of a slain battle-brother. He could not tell which Chapter the dead warrior was from, for the armour was so encrusted with gore and ash its colours were entirely obscured.

  Lucian gave the two medics a wide birth, leaving them to their sad duty out of respect.

  After another few minutes crunching through the corpse litter, Lucian saw the white-armoured forms of a group from Sarik’s Chapter gathered up ahead. Around twenty White Scars were gathered about a ruined, smoking dome, the rubble of its destruction strewn all about.

  As he approached the White Scars, Sarik turned and waved him over.

  “Lucian,” said Sarik. “She’ll talk only to you.”

  “Who?” said Lucian as the White Scars parted to make way.

  The dome had not been ruined by ordnance or the tread of a Battle Titan, but by the impact of a small craft of tau origin. That craft protruded from the cracked eggshell structure, and a figure was sat languidly upon its upper surface, clad in the tattered remains of tau water caste finery.

  “I thought you’d never get here, father,” said Brielle.

  Lucian approached the downed saviour pod, for that was what he judged the craft to be, in silence. Sarik clapped Lucian on the shoulder as he walked past, then the Space Marine led his warriors away a respectful distance.

  As Lucian approached the pod, Brielle pushed herself off and slid down its rounded surface, coming to rest, barefoot, in front of him. Lucian’s eyes narrowed as he met his daughter’s gaze.

  “Well?” he said.

  Brielle’s lop-sided grin faded, and she cocked her head, her plaited locks a dishevelled mess.

  “Well what…?” she muttered petulantly.

  “You are dead,” Lucian said flatly. “You assaulted an agent of the Holy Orders of the Emperor’s Inquisition and disappeared.”

  “I never said I was dead…” she started.

  “You never said anything!” Lucian bellowed. For some reason he could not begin to fathom, he was not the slightest bit surprised to find his daughter, who he had every reason to believe dead, standing here, in a burning tau city, light years away from where he had last seen her. He fought back the urge to strike her, so maddening was her manner.

  “I didn’t get the chance,” said Brielle. “And I’m sorry, father. I’m really sorry.”

  “What happened?” said Lucian. “Why all this?” he gestured to the downed saviour pod, but both knew he meant a whole lot more.

  “I’ll tell you everything, father,” Brielle stepped closer as she spoke. “But first, I have to tell you about the tau fleet…”

  “The tau fleet in orbit on the far side of this world?” Lucian cut in. “We’re not stupid, Brielle.”

  Her expression darkening, Brielle ploughed on. “The tau intend to demand the crusade’s surrender,” she said. “They wanted me to be their envoy, and that’s how I got out. I tricked them, I…”

  Lucian raised an eyebrow, well aware that his daughter was only telling him part of the truth, the part that suited her the most.

  “…but they have no idea of the crusade’s true strengths,” Brielle continued. “They don’t know about the reinforcements.”

  Lucian barked out a bitter laugh, and his daughter assumed a crestfallen expression.

  “There aren’t any reinforcements,” she said, a statement rather than a question.

  “We’re pulling out,” said Lucian flatly. “But I imagine you guessed that. If you’d left it any later to enact your cunning plan,” Lucian smirked, “you’d have had to stay behind.”

  “I didn’t want to go in the first place,” Brielle said, her pout making Lucian laugh despite himself. “Grand attacked me. I didn’t mean to kill him…”

  “Well, you can apologise in person,” said Lucian.

  Brielle stopped dead in her tracks. “He’s alive?”

  “No thanks to you, yes,” said Lucian. “Though he sustained serious wounds.”

  “If he’s still alive,” she stammered, “he’ll—”

  “Grand has lost it, Brielle,” Lucian interjected. “He’s insane and he’ll kill us all if he can.

  “You’re hardly the top of his list.”

  “All will rise!” the convenor bellowed, his metal-shod staff of office striking the deck of the council chamber with a resounding thud. Korvane Gerrit rose from the council seat normally occupied by his father, and the remainder of the gathered councillors rose from theirs.

  The chamber seemed empty, with several seats around the circular, black marble table unoccupied. Korvane’s father, as well as Veteran Sergeant Sarik, was still on the surface, while Captain Rumann was engaged on the Fist of Light. Those not present in person would nonetheless witness the session, by way of the images transmitted by a score of servo skull spy-drones hovering discreetly in the shadows, their multiple lenses whirring and clicking as they tracked the scene. General Gauge had not yet arrived either.

  Inquisitor Grand sat across the table from Korvane, his black robes seeming to draw him into the shadows, or perhaps to gather the darkness towards him. What little of the inquisitor’s flesh was visible was covered in a chaotic mass of scar tissue, the result of the flamer attack unleashed by Korvane’s sister months before. Thinking about Brielle made Korvane’s skin crawl, for he too had suffered at her hands. While he could never prove it, he harboured the suspicion that the accident aboard his vessel had been caused by her. Korvane had drawn on the resources of the Clan Arcadius to ensure his wounds were treated, and while they had largely healed, they still pained him greatly.

  It appeared to Korvane that the inquisitor wore his wounds proudly and overtly, allowing the scar tissue to enshroud his limbs as nature intended. Perhaps he was making some point about the ascendancy of the human form and the purity of its function, Korvane thought, for the Inquisition was riven with hundreds of different doctrines and philosophies that sometimes set its members violently at odds with one another.

  Cardinal Gurney sat to Grand’s right, glowering at Korvane. No doubt word of Lucian’s rallying of the troops following Gurney’s untimely departure had spread. It
was now obvious to all gathered that the cardinal had left the surface having been forewarned of Grand’s intention to bring forward the Exterminatus, but something had happened to forestall the devastation that hovered over Dal’yth Prime like the executioner’s axe.

  No one knew why the disbanded council had been reconvened, or why Grand had not overridden the convocation. The atmosphere was tense, and the council chamber noticeably colder than usual.

  “Admiral Jellaqua, of the Imperial Navy,” the convenor intoned, “and…”

  Jellaqua leaned in to whisper into the convenor’s ear, then the man announced, “…Interrogator Armelle Rayne, of the Holy Ordos of the Emperor’s Inquisition.”

  The air in the council chamber grew colder still. Another figure appeared at the door behind the admiral and his companion.

  “General Gauge,” announced the convenor, striking the deck once more. “Admiral Jellaqua has the chair. Let the council convene.”

  General Gauge took his seat three places to Korvane’s right, nodding to him as he did so. The portly Admiral Jellaqua sat himself next to Gauge, gifting Korvane a surreptitious wink as he settled into his chair. The individual who had been introduced as Interrogator Rayne took the seat between Jellaqua and Korvane, and as she sat, she pulled back the hood of her outer robe.

  The interrogator was a striking woman, her head bald and her skull subtly elongated, as if nature or augmentation had sculpted her into a new form. Her eyes too were ever so slightly altered and the irises were mirrored. Her features were sharp, almost angular, and her lips full. The side of her bald cranium was tattooed with an intricate tracery of arcane symbols: the aquila, the “I” of the Inquisition, and many other glyphs worked into dazzling patterns.

  Rayne noted Korvane’s scrutiny, and turned towards him. She inclined her head in greeting. “Korvane Gerrit of the Clan Arcadius,” she said, her voice like the purr of a felid. Korvane realised she must have been casting some psyker’s glamour to subtly manipulate the councillors’ perceptions, and forced his attentions towards the gatherings.

  Rayne caught Korvane’s eye the instant that thought crossed his mind, the ghost of a wry smile touching her lips.

  “Fellow councillors,” said Admiral Jellaqua. “I have called this extraordinary session of the crusade council…”

  “This council is dissolved,” Inquisitor Grand growled, his voice low and threatening. “By the authority of the Seal.”

  Jellaqua’s eyes narrowed as he dared meet those of Inquisitor Grand. “Nonetheless,” the admiral matched Grand’s tone, “there is much to discuss.”

  “There is nothing to discuss!” Cardinal Gurney growled as he rose to his feet. Jellaqua smirked slightly at the spectacle of the firebrand preacher performing the role of the inquisitor’s attack hound, but otherwise kept his gaze fixed squarely on Inquisitor Grand.

  “As I said, there is much to discuss,” said Jellaqua, then inclined his head towards the interrogator at his side. “I present Mamzel Rayne,” he paused, the air growing colder as he spoke. “Envoy of Lord Inquisitor Kryptman.”

  Korvane’s breath formed a cold, billowing cloud as he breathed out. Mere days had passed since the astropathic communication informing the council that Kryptman’s envoy would be joining them. None had expected the envoy to arrive so quickly, for the crusade itself had taken long weeks to cross the Damocles Gulf. Korvane had heard the whispered spacer’s tales of the archeotech vessels the highest servants of the Inquisition had access to—perhaps they were not mere tales at all.

  Interrogator Rayne stood, her black outer robe sliding from her bare shoulder to fall across the chair behind her. She was adorned in a long, flowing, off-the-shoulder gown made of the finest black void-silk Korvane had ever seen. She appeared more a noble of a high court than an agent of one of the most feared institutions in the Imperium.

  “My thanks,” Rayne nodded to the admiral, before her gaze swept over the gathered councillors. Gurney was lowering himself back into his seat, his face a mask of righteous, yet impotent fury, while Inquisitor Grand had visibly stiffened in his chair, his spindly body coiled as if ready to strike at any moment. Logistician-General Stempf would clearly rather have been anywhere else than at the council table, and he studiously avoided the interrogator’s gaze as it swept over him.

  The three new councillors, who Korvane had recruited, seemingly futilely for the council had been disbanded by Grand straight after, met Rayne’s gaze confidently. Korvane knew that he had chosen the three well, that they were men of principle who had nothing to hide from the interrogator’s scrutiny.

  “I come before this council as the emissary of my master, Lord Kryptman. The missive I have to impart comes directly from him, and he has sanctioned me to act in his name, in all things.”

  Korvane could not help but feel that the last statement was aimed directly at Inquisitor Grand. The air grew colder still. All of the councillors knew that Inquisitor Grand was the source of the drop in temperature, and several cast wary glances around the table, yet none dared show any overt sign of discomfort or fear.

  Interrogator Rayne reached to a pouch at her waist and withdrew a small, circular device with a glassy orb on its upper surface. Activating a command stud, she slid the device across the surface to the centre of the table, and stood back with her arms folded.

  The orb flickered to life and then cast a column of harsh white light into the space above it. The shaft danced with motes of energy, which resolved into a figure. It was a stooped, old man, clothed in the robes of an inquisitor, and he was possessed of such power and authority that all in the chamber felt utterly cowed.

  Then, the glowing, transparent figure spoke, his rich, low voice filling the chamber.

  “I am Inquisitor Lord Kryptman,” the projection began. “And I come before you with the full authority of the High Lords of Terra themselves. There is scant time for explanations and none for debate, so I will get straight to the point.

  “All commands receiving this message are hereby ordered, by the authority of the Senatorum Imperialis, to cease all military operations and set course for the Macragge system in the Realm of Ultramar. Every possible asset is to be mustered and no resource expended except in the execution of this order.”

  The flickering projection of Inquisitor Lord Kryptman paused, as if gathering his thoughts.

  “Fellow subjects of the God-Emperor, I shall not lie to you. A threat the likes of which the Imperium has not faced since the dawn of this age is descending upon us. I do not know if this is the beginning or the end, but I tell you this. If we do not defeat it at Macragge, the entire Imperium may fall.

  “Heed the words of my envoy as my own, and obey what orders you are given as my own.

  “That is all.”

  Profound silence descended on the council chamber, only the faint whirring of the servo-skulls’ spy-lenses audible as they hovered in the shadows. The projection faded to nothing, and Interrogator Rayne stepped forwards, placing her hands at the table’s edge and leaning in hawkishly to address the councillors.

  “The Damocles Gulf Crusade,” Rayne began haughtily, “though a righteous and noble undertaking, is ended.”

  A thin skein of ice appeared on the surface of the marble table, spreading outwards from Grand’s gnarled hands where they gripped its edge. A sense of primal dread settled on the chamber, and Korvane knew that dread was the inquisitor’s ire, made manifest by the agency of his formidable psychic potential. Rayne’s glance settled on Inquisitor Grand for a moment, before she continued without comment.

  “All available forces are to answer my master’s call and muster at Macragge.”

  “What threat?” Cardinal Gurney stammered. “What could possibly—”

  The interrogator went from haughty calm to banshee rage in a heartbeat. “You will be silent!” Rayne screamed, her rage so focussed and sharp it was as if she had drawn a power sword and plunged it directly into the cardinal’s heart. “By the authority vested in me by
my master, I order you to be silent.”

  Cardinal Gurney looked like he had been bodily assaulted, his face draining of its colour as he visibly shrivelled before the interrogator’s anger. Korvane knew that the cardinal, as an officer of the Ministorum, could claim to be outside of Kryptman’s authority. But then again, the lords of the Inquisition relied not on rulebooks to impose their will, but on influence, and Gurney was well outranked in that regard. Korvane glanced towards Inquisitor Grand, who had remained silent throughout. Grand was rigid, but now a frosting of ice coated his flesh.

  Several of the councillors swallowed hard, as much through fear of the inquisitor as dread at the envoy’s words. What could possibly threaten such a vast expanse of the mighty Imperium of Mankind? Even the most widespread rebellion, the mightiest ork incursion or the most ferocious crusade of the arch-enemy rarely afflicted more than a sector of Imperial space. To threaten an entire segmentum, an enemy would have to be of a scale not witnessed since the Imperium’s darkest days.

  “The enemy of which my master speaks is a previously unknown xenos-form, which he has codified tyranids,” Rayne continued, satisfied that Gurney’s interruption was at an end. “Already, they are classed xenos terminus, but serious consideration is being given to creating a new threat rating, just for them.”

  “What are these… tyranids?” said Korvane. “What is their nature?”

  Rayne turned her head to look down at Korvane, before replying, “They are beasts of nightmare.” Her gaze became distant as she spoke, as if recalling sights she would rather not describe. “They take a million forms, from gargantuan, world-razing monstrosity to flesh-eating parasite. They are teeth, claw, tentacle and maw.” The interrogator stopped there, and Korvane had little desire to learn more, though he knew he would.

  “How were they discovered?” Korvane pressed.