Tyrant of the Hollow Worlds

by Mark Clapham

  He had seen Garreon again, though. After a few days chained up, the ‘Corpsemaster’, as his lackeys had grandiosely referred to him, had entered Tormodr’s cell to begin his interrogations, presuming that Tormodr would be sufficiently weakened for the next stage of his torture.

  Tormodr had laughed in his face, and the Corpsemaster had left in a fury, screaming at underlings to perform various acts upon Tormodr’s person, to prepare him for the more precise torments to come.

  The pain was brutal and relentless, but it did them no good. He was of the Rout, a Sky Warrior, one of the Vlka Fenryka, a Space Wolf, a Son of Russ, a Fenrisian. He was not just a single warrior, driven by pride or ego or even honour – he was part of an endless tradition of war. His thread was just one of many that wove through a history of countless conflicts, and his suffering was only a passing moment in that greater history.

  They could torture him, these Red Corsairs, Traitor Marines tied up in their petty feuds and ambitions, but as they did he withdrew not into himself, but into the greater truth he was a part of, a timeless world of Space Wolves hunting across the snowbound plains of Fenris, of battles against ceaseless enemies whose faces changed but who died as easily as each other.

  When he felt that Tormodr was truly prepared, the Corpsemaster returned, with further agonies to inflict. He had questions and demands, but Tormodr didn’t answer the former, and laughed off the latter.

  This Garreon, with his thin face and his needles, dripped poison in Tormodr’s ear – sometimes literally, leaving the inside of his skull burning, and sometimes as heretical words and suggestions that burned in a different way. He threatened, he persuaded, he tormented Tormodr, trying to bring him to his side, to recant the Emperor and Russ, to take up the banner of the Red Corsairs and Huron Blackheart, to embrace the Dark Gods.

  Some part of Tormodr heard these words, and some part of him might even have been angered or offended. Certainly, a large part of him was in constant, but varying, pain.

  But a part of him was forever free, countless light years away from Garreon’s torture chamber, knee deep in the snows of Fenris, tracking prey that had just disappeared beneath the trees.

  That part Garreon could never reach and eventually, after countless sessions of torture over numberless days, the Corpsemaster had stormed out of the torture chamber never to return.

  Tormodr slept, and dreamed of the Aett, of a stronghold that towered over even the mountains around it.

  He awoke when he fell to the floor, face down. He had been unchained, and he tried to move, but Garreon, even though he had failed to extract secrets or fealty from Tormodr’s lips, had performed his torments well enough to rob him of any physical aptitude, at least without further healing. Tormodr’s nerves were utterly disrupted, his muscles limp, and the best he could do was jerk slightly on the ground.

  ‘Stay down, dog,’ rumbled a voice, and Tormodr felt a kick to the side of his head. That simple pain, the shocking blow, felt almost a relief after the subtler forms of pain inflicted by Garreon, and woke him a little. Not enough to stand, but enough to twist his head around to look at whoever had kicked him.

  Three skulls at the waist, then above that, the shadow of a horned helmet.

  ‘Traitor,’ mumbled Tormodr, as more of an observation than a taunt, and closed his eyes. He was woken suddenly again as he was pulled backwards. Traps were being fitted over his hands, metal devices presumably to stop him trying to unpick any locks or otherwise freeing himself.

  The traitor with the horns was accompanied by another of the same breed, the aquila on his armour scratched away and replaced with the red saltire of the Red Corsairs.

  Tormodr felt the rough surface of the wall rubbing against his naked back. He was being leaned against a wall in a sitting position, rather than trussed up.

  ‘Told to make me comfortable?’ he slurred through a loose-feeling jaw. Whatever drugs had been pumped into him, they still hadn’t worn off yet.

  The horned traitor punched Tormodr in his jaw, and the sharp shock was like a tonic. Much more punishment of this simple kind, and he would be on his feet in no time.

  ‘Shut your animal face, hound of the Emperor,’ snarled the voice beneath the horned helmet. ‘You are no more than a pet to a long-dead god, and now you will be Garreon’s toy to play with as he wishes.’

  Tormodr laughed, spitting a little blood.

  ‘Am I the toy?’ he taunted, his voice coming back to him through dry, bruised lips. ‘Am I the pet? I’m not the one running errands for an ineffectual sadist. Great freedom you have there, traitor. Betrayed your Emperor so you can do chores for the likes of Garreon.’

  The horned traitor pulled back his fist to strike again, but the second Red Corsair waded in to hold him back.

  ‘Verbin, leave him,’ hissed the other. ‘Garreon doesn’t want them harmed.’

  Them? thought Tormodr. Did that mean Sindri was still alive and nearby? Then there was hope here. Tormodr’s spirits rose further. One Space Wolf might hold out hope of being able to break free, but two Space Wolves captured in the same place? Nothing could hold them for long, especially if the guards were distracted by their own anger.

  ‘Yes, listen to your friend, Verbin, you have orders to follow,’ Tormodr boomed, flexing within his chains. ‘Better look after me well or your master will slap you, little traitor.’ He wriggled slightly on the spot. ‘I’ve got an itch here, Verbin, could you lend me those horns of yours to scratch it?’

  The two traitors marched out of the cell, securely bolting the door behind them, and even though he was too tightly chained and grievously injured to have any immediate hope of getting free, Tormodr laughed until long after the two traitors must have been out of hearing, laughed and took the pain that ran down his chest with each laugh as a sign that he was still alive, and that his fight was far from over.

  When Pranix had first awoken in his cell, it was to pain, and darkness.

  Inquisitors had finer minds than others. They were trained to cut through illusion, through the confusion injury and disorientation could bring, through the false presumptions weaker minds could fall to so easily. Concentrate, concentrate, concentrate.

  He was lying face down, on cold wet stone. He opened his eyes, forced them to focus. It was dark, but he could see, dimly, that he was in a small cell. He could hear nothing.

  With great effort, he pushed himself up to his knees, each muscle aching, his skin ablaze. He felt scourged, even though he was still fully clothed.

  The room swam, and Pranix had bent over onto his hands and vomited, attempting to do so away from himself rather than staining his clothes further. He was unsure of what filth he was covered in, but did not want to worsen the situation. He stood, his throat and nose stinging.

  He was still wearing the body armour, though his robes were gone, as was most of the shining ceremonial plate that he, as an inquisitor and a general leading Adeptus Astartes into battle, had taken to wearing. It was the tough material beneath, not the resplendent surfaces attached, that had doubtless kept him intact in his journey.

  The journey. Pranix had pieced it together from splintered memories. The furies had descended at unnatural speed, sorcery swirling around them. As they had flown away with Pranix in their grip, clawed fingers sinking into his flesh, swooping close to the roofs and treetops of Ressial, the matter below seemed to fold and shrink, in a blur of un-time that could have been days or weeks or minutes.

  Sorcery, powerful witchcraft, must have drawn the furies and their captive back to wherever they had deposited him. Pranix had tried to piece together anything from between that hideous journey and waking in his cell, but everything was too fuzzy.

  The fell magicks that had spirited Pranix and the furies across such incredible distances were phenomenally dangerous, and anyone who had undergone such an experience would be at grave risk of corruption themselves after s
uch exposure.

  Had he been tainted? No, he was sure it was not the case. His hatred for the traitors burned strong. He was as determined to grind them into dust and retake these worlds in the name of the Emperor as he ever had been.

  If his body still ached beyond reason, it was because he held on to his will, because he had held off the corruption and the touch of Chaos still burned him, a filth more rank than whatever foul liquid he was covered in.

  It was then, regaining his senses, that he could feel it, the presence of the enemy, the shadow of Chaos. Not there, in the cell, but outside, in the corridors and rooms around him.

  He had reached out, and his psychic effort had been repelled. The enemy had their wards and talismans too, and they were every­where, penning him in.

  Pranix had realised then that, however he was going to get out – and he was determined to escape his cell – it would not be with the aid of his psychic powers. He would need to find another way.

  Days passed, or at least seemed to. Pranix slept, exercised, performed other necessary physical functions, tried to keep his mind sharp and slept as much as he felt able to. If anything, imprisonment was keeping him in better condition than he had been before his capture – he had time to take the rest denied to him over years of service to the Inquisition.

  Pranix did not let his own failure to mark the passing of days during captivity, his lack of awareness as to whether it was night or day, trouble him. Disorientation was only an advantage to the enemy if you allowed it to be.

  Then one day the door opened, and his captor entered, ducking beneath the arch of the door, which closed behind him. He held a candle, the light of which was low and guttering, but burned fiercely to Pranix’s light-deprived eyes.

  His eyes adjusted enough for him to peer at the newcomer, who seemed to take up most of the cell.

  Although his body armour was filthy and shredded, Pranix felt over-dressed compared to his captor, who wore floor-length scarlet robes and a matching full-head hood with narrow eye slits. From his sheer size the newcomer was clearly a Space Marine, doubtless a traitor, but he wore no power armour and carried no visible weapon. The hand that held the candle in its rusty holder was brutishly oversized but pallid, the white skin patched with a rash as red as his robes.

  ‘Inquisitor,’ said the Red Corsair, a slight slur to the voice that came from beneath the hood. He bowed slightly, an absurdity in the circumstances. ‘I am Anto of the Red Corsairs, formerly of the Astral Claws, formerly of the Tiger Claws.’

  ‘Traitors and heretics all,’ snapped Pranix in return, his words ringing clear despite weeks of silence. ‘Should I be impressed by such an ill-starred career path?’

  A foul, gurgling laugh came from beneath the hood, and the shoulders shrugged as if to say: perhaps, perhaps not.

  ‘You should be dead,’ said Anto, pointing a black-nailed finger at Pranix.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ replied Pranix. If this was supposed to be intimidating, Anto wasn’t doing a very good job.

  Anto shook his head. ‘No, you misunderstand,’ he said. ‘If I had wanted you dead, you would be dead. It is Huron Blackheart who sought your demise, to remove the head from the enemy. Yet still you live. Do you know how rare it is for the target of Lord Huron’s ire to survive?’

  ‘I suppose I have you to thank for that?’ said Pranix.

  Anto nodded again. ‘The Tyrant is brilliant in many ways, but he is hasty to strike down those who might yet prove useful,’ he said. ‘Those of us who take a longer view sometimes need to intervene for the greater good, not that you would think of it as such.’

  ‘I’m never going to be useful to you, traitor,’ said Pranix quietly.

  Anto gave another guttural laugh.

  ‘You say that, but I have observed you at work, inquisitor, seen you from afar,’ said Anto, wagging a finger. ‘You are not one of the blind faithful, preaching loudly from Inquisitorial teachings and thinking that belief and the strictures of the Inquisition are enough to do your work. No, you are a pragmatist, Inquisitor Pranix, a realist, as much as one can be in a universe like this.’

  ‘Flattery won’t get you any further than threats,’ said Pranix.

  ‘I mean to use neither,’ said Anto. ‘I simply ask you to take the longer view, and consider your circumstances. For now, you will hold out against any torture or technique I might apply to you. There are other prisoners here, inquisitor, and they have received the kind of harsh treatment I spared you. I tell you this not as a threat, but to acknowledge I could have had you tortured at any time, but there was no point. You will not break, not here, not now.’

  Pranix remained silent. Anto leaned in to the inquisitor, who did not flinch. The front of the Red Corsair’s hood wafted in and out with his breath.

  ‘Think ahead, inquisitor,’ said Anto in a whisper. ‘This facility will soon be evacuated, and I will have you shipped in a sealed and warded life-sustaining container, out to the Red Corsairs fleet. When we have finished our campaign here, you will be transported to the Maelstrom, a place of unending Chaos. How long do you see your will holding out then, inquisitor, in a place that rots the mind of holy men such as yourself? How long until the influence of your environment corrupts you utterly, turns you to our cause without me even needing to ask for your assistance?

  ‘Take the long view, inquisitor, and you will see that there is no point in resistance. You would be better served by transferring your allegiances to our cause now, renouncing your previous faith and accepting the inevitable on your own terms. That way, you may still hold some control over your destiny, and your assistance in defeating your former armies will earn you a place as loyal servant.’

  It was Pranix’s turn to laugh, but it came out desperate and forced.

  ‘It’s a long way to the Maelstrom, traitor,’ said Pranix. ‘And your great victory is far from assured.’

  Anto shrugged. ‘As you say, inquisitor,’ he said. ‘But while you have sat imprisoned, Huron Blackheart has already seized the Orrery and shattered one of the Hollow Worlds, dealing a blow to your forces in the process. We stand close to victory. Your loyalty to me now would assist that victory, and be to my credit in our master’s eyes, but in the long run that matters little. There will be other campaigns, and your knowledge, the precious secrets of an inquisitor, will help us then, whether dropped from the lips of a drooling madman or spoken by a true servant of Huron Blackheart. Through allegiance or mania, you will become ours.’

  Anto walked to the door, and banged on it twice with his fist.

  ‘Enjoy your journey, inquisitor,’ said Anto. ‘The same wards that prevent you or I using our witchcraft in here have been applied to your transport capsule, so I’m afraid there is no hope of escape en route. When I see you again, these Hollow Worlds will already have been lost to you, and with them the last of your hopes.’

  The door opened.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Pranix. ‘When I do escape, and I lead my forces to crush your master and his treacherous filth, what will he do to you when he finds out you lied to him about my death?’

  It was Anto’s turn to be silent.

  ‘You’re a fool for not killing me already,’ sneered Pranix. ‘And too proud to do the deed now and give up your egotistical hopes of breaking me.’

  Anto wordlessly passed through the door and slammed it behind him, but Pranix kept talking, then shouting, so that Anto might continue to hear him:

  ‘I may be in the cell, but it is you who is trapped, heretic.’

  Twenty-Four

  Rotaka couldn’t feel the skull fragment in his hand. His gauntlets were armoured, and had virtually no sensitivity to the subtleties of the surface beneath his fingertips, the organic unevenness of bone, the coldness of the metallic treatment it had been given when turned into a servo-skull, the dryness of the bloodstains.

  Nonetheless, Rotaka sa
t fully armoured, his back to the wall of the facility on Kerresh, rubbing the piece of bone between thumb and forefinger. A fragment of Iltz, the comrade he had killed long ago, retrieved from the shattered face of Malinko, another comrade killed before his eyes.

  The death toll for the Red Corsairs might have been far worse if Kolsh hadn’t followed the Tyrant’s scent all the way to the Orrery chamber.

  It had still been a fiercely fought battle, but the Space Wolves were undermined both by the death of their leader and the disappearance of the underground Archway they had used to reach Karstveil, removed by Huron’s adjustment to the Orrery. When the Space Wolves attempted a strategic retreat before making their next attack, they found themselves trapped instead.

  As Lord Huron adjusted the Orrery to his satisfaction, it had been Kolsh, lunatic that he was, who rallied the Red Corsairs to fight back against, and slaughter, the Space Wolves.

  Rotaka wished there had been some satisfactory, specific vengeance enacted during this turn of events, that he or Hulpin or Verbin or Wuhrsk had tracked down the rabid Space Wolf who killed Malinko and taken his life in return, but nothing so simple or cathartic occurred: the Space Wolves died in a hail of fire from all directions, and in the aftermath it was impossible to tell who had killed who.

  The Space Wolves themselves would have continued their vengeance after the enemy were dead, desecrating the corpses and destroying their symbols, but as a warband of dwindling numbers, the Red Corsairs were allowed no such luxuries: the remains, weapons and armour of the dead Space Wolves were gathered and transferred to the hold of one of the galleons, so that Garreon might extract the gene-seed and the Corsairs’ weaponsmiths might strip and repurpose the dead loyalists’ equipment.

  The Red Corsairs’ own dead, including Malinko, were dragged away by slaves at the same time. There was no place for sentimentality, or even a passing moment to honour the fallen, in a warband shaped in Huron Blackheart’s own ruthless image.