by William King
Macharius stood there, glancing around him. ‘Take two minutes,’ he said. ‘Your bodies will adjust.’
After the battle was over Macharius went to inspect the wounded, for his presence among them was always a comfort. He found what I had been expecting, and I am sure what he had too, that there were far fewer of them than there ought to have been, and this was not good news.
A battle is a bloody affair but normally far more men take wounds than are killed outright. Often those wounds will kill far more of them than combat in the long run, but that is neither here nor there.
You expect to see mangled bodies, and bleeding men. You expect to hear the cries of pain and see wounded warriors wrapped in red-stained bandages and splattered with synthi-flesh. It is simply the way things are. Only this time, it was not.
There were plenty of dead. There were plenty of mangled bodies. There were plenty of dying. Far too many, in fact. Almost all of those who had taken even the slightest wound from the eldar were passing away, slowly and in great pain. A few were not, but there was no rhyme nor reason to it. It was as though the xenos had spared some victims on a whim.
Perhaps the poison on their weapons had run out, or perhaps it was something completely different. I just know that I have never seen so many wounded men who were so obviously going to die after any previous battle. And I had never seen so many bodies that had been mutilated in ways that showed a malicious intelligence at work. Even in the heat of battle, the eldar had taken time to work terrible harm on a selection of their victims.
Macharius’s face was a mask. I knew he was furious. He was a man capable of great cruelty himself, but it was always in the service of something, the ideal of the Imperium he served. This was something else. It was a sign of sickness of soul somewhere. It was not the innocent malice of cats playing with rodents; it was calculated, the product of intelligences who had simply decided, for whatever reasons of their own, to cause as much pain as possible to whatever they encountered.
He stalked back towards his chambers, and we were silent, for he was wrathful.
The holding bay is crowded, with prisoners and with warriors. The ranks of those who boarded the human ship are sadly depleted. Their armour is pitted and scarred in many places. Some are wounded and are receiving the ministrations of haemonculi.
All of them are glaring at me in a way they simply would not have done a few hours before. They can count the number of the missing as well as I can, and they blame me for the absence of every comrade who is not here. Each death is a mark against me, a signifier of failure. We have taken what they believe to be needless casualties fighting against our inferiors. I have, temporarily, lost the aura of invincibility that is so necessary for those who would lead the eldar. There is a sense of menace in the assembled gaze that I force myself to ignore. If my subordinates wish to challenge me, let them. I do not fear any of them.
I stare at the assembled humans and try to read the emotions on their faces. It is not easy. Their features are slack and witless, not mobile and expressive like eldar faces. Their small bestial eyes glare around with a mixture of fear and horror. I have switched off the translation engine for the time being so I can only hear the loathsome grunting that serves them as speech.
‘Not the best of hauls,’ says Sileria. She looks smug, as most eldar do when contemplating another’s misfortune. I can tell she is measuring our losses against the number of slaves we have gained. In her mind, as in mine, the balance comes down heavily on the debit side. I wonder if she is contemplating a move against me, while the warriors are disenchanted. ‘I wonder how much nutriment they will provide. Very little most likely.’
‘We shall not consume them… yet,’ I say. I glance around. I have got all of their attentions now. They are curious as to what I have in mind.
‘They do not look as though they would be much use for anything else,’ Sileria says.
‘I would question them,’ I say.
‘You wish to converse with these beasts?’ Sileria says, unable to keep the astonishment from her voice.
‘Yes, Sileria, I do,’ I say, and I let a little of the lash sound in my voice. It is time to remind all of them who rules here and why. ‘There was a human of unusual skill on that ship. Surely you noticed how they countered all of our attacks and prevented us from taking the prize. Or were you too busy sweating your way through the battle?’
Sileria looks huffy. She is not unaware of her lack of finesse in combat, but the accusation of sweating is the one that upsets her most. I can see she would challenge me if she dared, but she does not. A direct physical attack on my person could only end one way, and we both know it. She gradually relaxes as she realises that I am prepared for any assault she might make.
No, I think, if there is going to be any move against me by Sileria it will come indirectly through one of her many lovers, Bael perhaps, or as part of some cabal. She forces herself to smile, but it just makes her look petulant.
‘Also there is the matter of this… thing,’ I say, indicating the Space Marine artefact. ‘It is a device belonging to one of the human elites, but I saw none of them aboard. I am curious as to why it was there, and to what use it may be put. It was obviously of some significance to them, perhaps part of their primitive religion.’
She looks at the clawed mechanical gauntlet with contempt. I can understand why. It looks primitive and ugly, but there is something about it that speaks to me. It is ancient, and an aura of something clings to it. ‘I do not see what possible interest it could hold to an eldar of your intellect,’ she says, as if scoring a point.
Of course you don’t, I think, and that is one reason why I am the leader here and you are not.
‘The humans placed some value on it. It might prove useful as bait,’ I say. A few of the warriors nod. This is the sort of thinking they understand. They are calming down a little now, but I can see that in every heart a desire for vengeance has been kindled. ‘It may be the humans will return seeking it.’
‘If they do we will make them regret it,’ says Veldor.
‘No doubt,’ I say, letting a note of irony show in my voice. I gesture to one of the servants to bring me my flaying tools. It is time to start asking some questions. I open the casket and produce a curved flensing knife with a bulb of tomb-worm venom in its hilt. I turn to the nearest human, one who wears the over-elaborate garb of one of their leaders. I switch on the translation engine.
‘You there,’ I say. ‘Come talk to me.’
Macharius looked at the Guardsman grim-faced, then he looked at the slab where the Fist had lain. Of the ancient artefact itself there was no sign
‘It is what?’ he said. I think it was perhaps the first time I had ever really seen him lose control. In the past he had acted it for the benefit of an audience, but at that moment he looked genuinely shocked.
‘It is gone,’ said the Guardsman. He had the dazed, shocked look of one who had somehow against all odds survived an overwhelming attack by the eldar. ‘The Fist of Demetrius is gone.’
I looked at the bodies of the dead. They were strewn everywhere, and they bore the markings of those who had died at the hands of the eldar. They had not gone cleanly into the Emperor’s Light. Macharius’s eyes narrowed. He walked over to the last resting place of the Fist and stared in, as though he could not quite believe it was gone, despite the evidence of his own eyes.
‘I want the ship searched,’ he said. ‘Every compartment. Make sure the Fist is not still aboard.’
Drake looked at him askance. ‘The eldar were here. It seems logical that they took it.’
Macharius nodded. ‘But we cannot just assume it. I want every avenue explored.’ Sailors and soldiers alike ran to carry out his orders, leaving only the two great men and their bodyguards alone in the chamber.
Macharius’s fist clenched. He spoke with controlled anger. ‘I want the Fist found.’
‘We only just escaped the eldar,’ said Drake, not unreasonably. ‘We are lucky
to get away with our lives.’
‘Nonetheless, I will have it returned. I do not wish to see a sacred relic of humanity left in the hands of those xenos.’
‘That is understandable,’ said Drake. ‘We put an enormous amount of effort into locating it. We spent lives recovering it. And if it is what we believe it to be then they cannot be allowed to have it.’
There was something else in the air here, hovering between them. I could sense it.
‘The meeting should be happening soon,’ said Macharius.
‘If Sejanus managed things properly,’ said Drake.
‘Sejanus knew what to say. He will do what needs to be done.’
‘We both know that the Adeptus Astartes are unpredictable and those ones most of all,’ said Drake. ‘Who knows how they will respond to your overtures? I would not care to predict that myself.’
Macharius smiled. It was a bleak expression. ‘You still do not approve of this course of action, my friend.’
‘It is a gamble that might be misinterpreted by those who watch over us.’
‘I have considered that,’ said Macharius.
‘I don’t doubt it. You consider everything.’
‘But… I hear a but in your voice.’
‘Imperial politics is not a battlefield, Lord High Commander,’ said Drake. ‘On the field of battle you are all but invincible. This is something else.’
Macharius looked around. There was something conspiratorial in their manner now. I felt this was something they had talked about in private during those long enclosed sessions with no one else present. What had they been discussing, I often wondered – the most powerful man in the galaxy and the inquisitor who had taken upon himself the role of counsellor and spiritual advisor. They were in the process of reforging an Imperium shattered by schism and civil war, of reclaiming thousands of worlds that had fallen from the Emperor’s Light.
The faces of those the eldar had killed stared at us empty-eyed. I wondered about the place the Fist of Demetrius might have in Macharius’s plans, and how they might be affected by its disappearance. Judging by Macharius’s expression, the answer was not good.
Replete, I look at the mess of bodies on the tables. The interrogation was a surprisingly satisfactory experience. It gives me a simple pleasure to exercise my skills even on such beasts as these. And, of course, as part of the experience, they talked, willingly answering all of the questions I put to them. Not many can resist the flaying knife or the eye-gougers when they are wielded by an expert such as myself. Most of them would have talked willingly enough when they saw what happened to the first of them, but I see no reason to deny myself the small pleasures in life.
I consider what they have told me. I have a name for my foe now, Macharius. It seems to me that I have heard that name before in other places. He is the human associated with this new tribal migration they have under way. He is their leader. I am pleased with this knowledge. This Macharius is exceptional by the standards of the humans, a beast with an innate gift for warfare almost worthy of an eldar, one with a talent such as might emerge every hundred generations. It does not make my failure sting any less, but it does explain it.
Perhaps more interesting is what they told me about the artefact. It appears it is sacred to the humans. One of them, better informed than the rest, told me that it may have belonged to one of the ancient saints or primarchs, or whatever the humans call their primitive heroes. It is not the first time I have come across references to this Leman Russ. He is revered as the founding father of their Space Wolves tribe. Such beings were said to be gifted with near god-like powers. It comes to me that if this is truly the case, it is well worth investigating. I doubt it will come to anything but there was once a time when the humans were far more advanced than they are today, and it may be that analysis of the genetic helix will reveal something worthwhile. I am not hopeful, but it is an avenue worth exploring.
In any case, I have learned all there is to learn from the primitives and can return to our new base to continue my investigations. I have a foreboding that the humans will return. It seems this Macharius made considerable efforts to obtain the Fist. He will most likely do so again, if he survives.
That would be good. I would welcome a chance to humble him. Our defences must be made ready.
We waited tensely. We hoped and we prayed to the Emperor. The crew did a little more than that. They moved around the ship, reinforcing the bulkheads and checking all of the areas around the eldar breakthrough zones. Macharius had sentries stand guard with them. I don’t know what he was expecting, perhaps for monsters to break through and take over the ship. My own fear was simply that the weak spots in the hull would give way and the stuff of the immaterium would come roaring in, or all our air would go roaring out, but I am an ignorant former factory worker from Belial and what do I know of the horrors we avoided?
I know that after the initial tense period of waiting after the jump we settled down into a parody of the usual shipboard routine, although we were more wary and more afraid even than usual. Macharius really did have the whole ship searched for the Fist and was disappointed to find that it was not aboard. After that he paced his chambers and studied star charts and planetary maps, but I could tell that he was disturbed. There were times when there was a tightness about his eyes and a grim twist to his lips that spoke of a controlled fury that only those of us who knew him very well would have noticed. At those times, we walked very quietly around him.
What could it be that was troubling him? I had seen Macharius sleep like a baby the night before a battle in which a million men died. I had watched him smile when we were surrounded and outnumbered by a thousand to one. Why had the loss of this one ancient artefact upset him so?
Granted it might have been a sacred relic of the time when the Emperor had walked among men – but we had seen no evidence of it. It had worked no wonders in our presence. We had marched triumphantly through the galaxy without it, and I fully expected to march triumphantly again. Macharius did not need sacred artefacts to march behind. He was his own banner and his own guarantee of victory. He had won every war he had fought. Still there was an unease in him, as if he sensed forces gathering against him, unseen as yet but coming. He was a man who liked to prepare for all contingencies, was Macharius, but what contingency was he planning for now? And why had Drake mentioned the Adeptus Astartes?
I pushed such thoughts to one side. The answers would become clear in time, I felt sure. And so we emerged from the second leg of our ill-fated jump. This time we arrived at our intended destination, Emperor’s Glory.
‘You refuse to aid me?’ Macharius said.
‘I do,’ said the fleet admiral. ‘With a heavy heart, but I do.’
As soon as we arrived in the Emperor’s Glory system Macharius started making preparations to reclaim the Fist. He spoke to the fleet admiral in orbit over the new capital of the crusade on the vox-channels, but it seemed others had already been in touch with that august personage.
‘Why?’
‘I have spoken with your Navigator and his brethren in the fleet. They all believe that Procrastes, the system you escaped from, is unreachable at this moment in time.’
‘I see,’ said Macharius. He stared at the admiral. If he had looked at me in that way I would have acquiesced to his requests, but Fleet Admiral Kellerman was made of sterner stuff.
‘I do not rule out sending the fleet there in the future. It is just that now is too risky. To send any of our ships into the jaws of that storm would be to place them at unacceptable odds of loss. Once the storm dies down that will no longer be the case.’
‘Tell me, admiral,’ said Macharius. ‘How long can these storms last?’ It was clear that Macharius already had a clear idea of the answer. He merely wanted the other man to be on record.
‘They can last for decades, Lord High Commander,’ said Kellerman. ‘I would not get my hopes up about this happening any time soon.’
‘Thank you, admiral
,’ said Macharius and cut the connection. He turned to Drake and said, ‘It seems the Navy is being obstructive.’
Drake studied him coolly. ‘I think he merely told you something you did not want to hear.’
Macharius shrugged. ‘That he did, but nonetheless, I suspect he is being deliberately obstructive.’
‘He would not be the first Navy commander to be so,’ said Drake, who obviously did not want to argue the point. He had chosen a more subtle line of defence.
‘This has been happening more and more lately,’ Macharius said.
‘A man in your position generates enemies,’ said Drake. ‘It is inevitable. I warned you about antagonising the magnates. I warned you that the lords of the Administratum would start seeing you as a threat. It looks like the first moves against you have begun.’
‘I want the Fist reclaimed,’ said Macharius.
‘I strongly suspect you will need to do that without the Navy’s help.’
‘They are not the only people with ships,’ said Macharius.
‘You will need a warship, and a very powerful one, if you intend to return to Procrastes.’
‘I believe I know where I can find one,’ said Macharius.
‘I was afraid of that,’ said Drake.
Chapter Eight
Emperor’s Glory looked exactly as you would expect such a world to look. The sky was clear and an astonishing shade of blue. The sun was bright and golden. Where there were no cities, the lands were pristine as a park. The cities were studies in imposing beauty.
The buildings had gleaming marble facings, and gigantic statues of saints and Imperial heroes filled the streets. At least in the upper city everything was clean and gilded and perfect looking. The people were richly dressed. Perhaps in the undercity, things were different, but we had not yet had either the opportunity or the desire to look. It was beyond a shadow of a doubt the richest planet I had visited, and it was getting richer by the day.