Architect of Fate

by Edited by Christian Dunn

  Pylcrafte raises a slender, ivory cane and waves it at the distant fleet. ‘I would remind you, Sergeant Halser, that my master did not send you anywhere. He merely pointed out the tragedy of losing such an ancient site in the impending Exterminatus.’

  ‘He said more than that.’

  The inquisitor’s acolyte shrugs. ‘He gave you no orders, Sergeant Halser. He learned of your esoteric interests and, by the providence of our Most Venerable Emperor, he was able to offer you a chance for elucidation – an opportunity to explore the scriptoria before they are destroyed. You are here of your own volition.’

  Halser’s lips curl back further from his teeth into a terrifying smile. ‘Don’t worry. I learned long ago not to expect any official endorsements.’

  The gunship banks hard and Pylcrafte’s cane slips from his grip, clattering harmlessly off Comus’s armour and bouncing into a corner. As the gunship plunges through the clouds, the lights fail for a few seconds. In the darkness Halser sees Pylcrafte’s cluster of eyes, watching him closely from within his hood. He remembers something odd that Comus said about him and leans forwards with a question. Then the sound of the turbulence becomes deafening and he leans back.

  The question is forgotten.

  ‘We need to find shelter!’ yells Pylcrafte. He is cowering behind the armoured bulk of Halser with his cane wedged in the dust, struggling to stay on his feet.

  Comus and the rest of the squad are spread out around the downed gunship with their bolters trained on the storm, as motionless as statues. Their pewter-coloured armour matches the smoke pouring from the ship’s damaged hull; if not for the white skulls painted on their pauldrons they would be nearly invisible.

  Halser ignores Pylcrafte, fascinated by the view. Even his enhanced vision cannot pierce the clouds, but as they whirl and heave around him, he catches glimpses of Ilissus’s strange landscape: soaring limbs of rock, wrenched from the earth by forces he can only imagine, creating a bewildering web of ruddy stone towers, almost indistinguishable from the storm. The rock is so contorted it resembles a great coral reef, dragged from beneath the ground. As the clouds rush between the columns they howl, and it seems to Halser as though they are trying to speak. He even holds his breath for a second, trying to catch a meaning in the sound; then he gives a short bark of laughter, amused by his own ridiculousness.

  Remembering the pain in his leg, he looks down at the jagged hole in his armour. The Larraman cells have already done their work – the wound scabbed over in seconds – but he will be left with yet another ugly scar. He mutters a prayer of thanks. Every jagged line only serves to remind him of his proud burden. A lesser man would not have survived such a disastrous landing.

  He stoops to wipe the blood from his damaged armour then turns to the others. They are still scanning the horizon for signs of attack. A few of them have injuries of their own but, to a man, they are straight-backed and alert. He feels a swell of pride. Even now, after all the lies and slander, they are unbroken: as determined as he is to prove their worth – even if only to themselves.

  ‘Which way to the scriptoria?’ he calls, ignoring the cowled figure standing next to him.

  Pylcrafte flinches at the sergeant’s words. The crash has left him badly shaken. His floor-length robes are torn, and as he looks back at the Librarian his head twitches with fear.

  Comus nods in reply and unclasps a book from his power armour. It is small, leather-bound, sealed with gold clasps and foiled with symbols that are far too bizarre to be of human design. It could be mistaken for a harmless piece of arcana, but Halser knows the truth. He knows what he is asking of his old friend.

  Comus unlocks the clasps and flips open the cover, frowning with concentration as he handles the tiny book. There are no pages inside, just a hinged, steel case covered with dials, runes and a glass screen. The Librarian inserts a cable into a socket on the side of the device, closes his eyes and winces in pain. Then he begins to mouth words that are lost to the wind.

  As he watches Comus praying, Pylcrafte’s terrified expression becomes a sneer of disgust. ‘How can you allow him to handle such a talisman?’ he asks, looking up at the sergeant.

  Halser gives no answer, but he knows the question is a fair one.

  ‘According to the libellus, the Zeuxis Scriptorium was five kilometres north of this spot.’ Comus’s voice is taut with pain. ‘If I understand the xenos text correctly, the storm has not thrown us too far off target.’

  ‘Five kilometres away?’ cries Pylcrafte, looking afraid again. ‘Then we must move fast. We’ve already spent too long above ground. I told you – the only safe way to cross this planet is underground. We must find a tunnel before we do anything else.’

  Halser nods. ‘Once we’ve located Brother Silvius’s ship.’

  Pylcrafte reels as though slapped. His voice shrieks even higher. ‘Your battle-brothers could be scattered across the continent. They could all be dead. You’ve heard no word from them.’ He jabs his cane into the dusty ground. ‘We need to find cover now.’

  Rage is ever-present in Sergeant Halser’s eyes, but for a moment it seems on the verge of boiling over into violence. His huge jaw tightens and his voice fills with disbelief. ‘Are you ordering me?’

  A little colour creeps into Pylcrafte’s pallid face. ‘Of course not, but you’ve tried to contact your men and there’s no response.’ He lowers his nest of eyes. ‘You may have to consider that they have fallen. Why would they ignore your signal?’

  Halser thumps the lifeless auspex at his belt. ‘Since that storm spat us out, we have no signal.’ He looks again at the towering clouds. ‘Nothing. We are alone.’ He lifts his helmet and snaps it into place. When he speaks again, his voice is an inhuman growl. ‘But I will not abandon my men.’

  Pylcrafte cringes pitifully and clutches his cane to his chest. ‘Of course not, Sergeant Halser. But you must understand, if we don’t head below the surface now, we might encounter the enemy.’

  Halser studies him through the featureless visor of his helmet. Then he raises his bolt pistol and clangs it against the battered grey ceramite of his chest armour. ‘I hope so, Pylcrafte, I really do.’

  Chapter Two

  Inquisitor Mortmain sits quietly in the cathedral, head bowed and weary, relishing the solitude. Even here, deep within the bewildering network of cloisters and buttressed towers he cannot fully escape the sounds of the ship: the rumble of engines, the grinding of weapons batteries and the droning hum of power circuits; but it is the closest thing the Domitus has to a haven. Vast, lancet windows watch over him, flooding the cathedral with coloured light and painting his face a lurid green. Mortmain could never be considered handsome. His features are as angular and harsh as the statues that line the nave, but there is a fierceness to his blunt, crooked nose; a sense of purpose beneath his low, heavy brow, that would mark him out in a crowded room, even without the badge of office that hangs around his neck.

  As he studies the windows Mortmain finds it hard to meet his master’s eye. Despite the horrors the ship has endured the Emperor’s gaze has not faded. The stained glass was crafted on Terra, countless centuries ago, but the scale of the artist’s vision is undimmed: the Emperor glares down resplendent from the backlit glass, still sure of His purpose, still blazing with unshakeable faith.

  The inquisitor grimaces and steers his thoughts beyond the glass, beyond the cathedral, beyond even the rest of the Domitus. He pictures Fleet Sanctus, trailing after him through the void. The Emperor’s might, turned aside from its purpose, redirected at his command. Mortmain pulls his thick leather cloak a little tighter, suddenly conscious of the cold. His shoulders slump as he considers the weight of his choices. In his left hand he grips a vellum scroll, beautifully illuminated, clasped with silver and covered with wax purity seals. It bears the mark of governors, company commanders, captains and bishops: everyone who could possibly question his decision. The Concordat of Zeuxis they named it, in recognition of Ilissus’ famed scriptorium, b
ut Mortmain is under no illusions: it is a death warrant. The fate of an entire world is in his hands. Maybe more. He draws a deep breath. Compared to such weighty matters, what concern is a friendship? Is he risking too much?

  A polite cough interrupts his thoughts. He looks up and sees a hooded priest watching him from the far end of the nave.

  ‘Is the Novator here?’ Mortmain has not spoken for several hours and his voice is a hesitant croak, but the acoustics of the cathedral are such that his words are amplified, echoing around the vaulted ceilings and sculpted columns.

  The distant figure nods. ‘Should I show him in, Inquisitor Mortmain?’

  Mortmain clears his throat and rises to his feet, flinging back his floor-length cloak. There is a flash of silver as the light plays across his etched breastplate. The intricate designs in the metal are worked around a central device: the letter I, crossed with three bars and studded with a single, blood-red stone.

  Mortmain has a black, serrated billhook tucked into his belt and as he stands he grips the hilt in his right hand, soothed by the feel of its cool, pitted ebony against his skin.

  He nods, and when he speaks again the doubt has gone from his voice. ‘Bring him to me.’

  The priest bows and shuffles back into the shadows.

  After a few minutes a man approaches. He is stooped low to the floor and moving backwards in a series of strange, lurching hops. Mortmain realises that he is dusting the floor, furiously wiping the stones to save the shoes of his master.

  This must be van Tol, thinks Mortmain as another man appears. The second man walks upright, with a confident stride and his shoulders thrown back. He is immaculately dressed in a starched military uniform. Every centimetre of his tall, elegant frame is braided and adorned, and there is an ornate, gilt-handled sabre at his side. As he catches sight of Mortmain, his waxed moustache quivers over a glib smirk. ‘Inquisitor,’ he drawls. ‘Have I interrupted your prayers? You must forgive me.’ His face is the complete antithesis of Mortmain’s, with a small, receding chin, creamy, flawless complexion and features so delicate they are almost pretty.

  Mortmain gives a stiff bow and steps away from the altar, filling the cathedral with noise as his iron-shod boots clang across the flagstones. ‘Not at all, baron. I have been looking forward to meeting you again.’ As he approaches his guest, the inquisitor notices other men waiting in the shadows: the baron has brought his guards. This is no social call, he thinks, gripping the billhook a little tighter.

  Baron van Tol holds out a limp, white-gloved hand. It is unclear whether he expects it to be shaken or kissed.

  Mortmain grasps it firmly in his own. ‘Your chambers are sufficient, I hope?’

  The baron continues to smirk. ‘Sufficient, yes.’ The words merge into one another, as though he can barely find the energy to separate vowels from consonants. He is unusually tall and studies Inquisitor Mortmain down the length of a long, aquiline nose, his eyes half-lidded and full of disdain, like those of a basking lizard waiting idly to be fed. ‘Not a single dissenter,’ he says.

  Mortmain frowns, confused.

  The baron nods at the scroll in Mortmain’s hand. ‘The concordat.’ There is an unmistakable note of mockery in his voice. ‘Your word is law, Inquisitor Mortmain. Your doubts were unfounded. There are few, even here, who would question the will of the Imperial Inquisition.’

  Mortmain shrugs, ignoring the baron’s sneering tone. ‘I claim no credit. We are all just vessels for the Emperor’s will. And, besides, your evidence was persuasive. What hope do we have of containing anything with corruption left unchecked at our backs?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  The two men stand in silence for a few seconds, still clutching each other’s hands. Finally, Mortmain withdraws his grip and waves to one of the pews.

  ‘Tell me,’ says the inquisitor, once they are seated, ‘what has brought you to the Domitus? The concordat is signed. I thought you would be eager to return home. I understand that being in such close proximity to the Eye of Terror is particularly unpleasant for someone with your talents.’ At the word ‘talents’ he gazes briefly at the baron’s forehead. Van Tol is wearing a peaked cap, pulled low, and there is no sign of anything strange; beyond a vaguely translucent quality to his skin, he might be a normal man.

  The baron shrugs. ‘I will return to Terra as soon as possible, of course, but I…’ He hesitates, as though doubting the inquisitor’s ability to understand. ‘I have complete confidence in your abilities, Inquisitor Mortmain. Let me make that clear. I have nothing but respect for men who drag themselves up from the…’ a look of distaste crosses his face, ‘lower orders of society. I’m sure that you’re a very competent individual.’ He seems unwilling to meet Mortmain’s gaze. ‘But I will not be able to rest until this situation has been resolved.’

  Mortmain raises his eyebrows and leans back in the pew. ‘Ilissus will be destroyed, Baron van Tol.’

  ‘Of course it will, Inquisitor Mortmain, I have no doubt of that. No doubt at all.’ The baron laughs. It is a shrill, mirthless sound and his eyes remain fixed on the floor. ‘But it would set an old man’s heart at ease to witness the deed first-hand.’

  Mortmain opens his mouth to reply, but before he can speak one of the baron’s attendants steps out of the shadows. He is a double of the baron, with the same feminine features and languid bearing. The only difference is a little less grey in his moustache and a few less medals on his uniform.

  ‘Why is there no action?’ demands the younger noble, his face flushed with emotion. ‘Every minute sees the contagion spreading. While we–’

  ‘Silence, my dear Palchus!’ The baron’s voice is soft, but full of venom. ‘How dare you interrupt? Stand down.’

  The young man’s eyes glitter with rage, but he does as ordered and steps back into the darkness.

  The baron turns back to Mortmain, clearly embarrassed. ‘You must forgive my son’s appalling manners. We are all very concerned about the situation.’ He shifts awkwardly in the pew. ‘In his clumsy way, though, he has asked the question that is on my own mind: when exactly will the bombardment begin? Your ships are in place, are they not?’

  Mortmain studies the baron in silence for a few seconds, struggling to keep his expression neutral. ‘Ilissus will be destroyed.’ He chooses his words carefully. ‘The nobles of House van Tol have played an important part in bringing this situation to light, but the matter is now in the hands of the Inquisition.’

  The baron briefly meets the inquisitor’s gaze, his eyes still hooded with mirth. ‘Of course. I merely came to offer my assistance. You must understand…’ The baron’s words trail off as he notices how closely Mortmain is studying him. The smirk finally vanishes, as abruptly as a light being extinguished. ‘Has the defence of Ilissus definitely been abandoned?’

  Mortmain stares at van Tol, unused to having his actions questioned.

  ‘I just wondered,’ continues the baron, ‘about the two gunships that launched a few hours ago.’

  Mortmain continues to stare.

  The baron waits for an answer that never comes. Eventually he rises to his feet, uncomfortable under Mortmain’s intense gaze. ‘I sense I’ve annoyed you Inquisitor Mortmain, and that was not my intention.’ He steps back with a slight bow. The smirk returns. ‘I will be in my chambers if you need anything.’

  Mortmain narrows his eyes, but says nothing as he watches the baron saunter down the nave, whispering to his lackeys as they vanish into the long shadows. Once their footfalls have faded, the inquisitor looks up into the benevolent gaze of the Emperor. ‘They’re hiding something,’ he mutters, keeping his eyes fixed on the glass.

  A voice replies from the darkness. The words are moist and distorted, as though spoken through a bundle of wet rags. The language is impenetrable and revolting.

  Mortmain nods in agreement and purses his lips. ‘Exterminatus can wait a little longer. I will not consign millions to their deaths without knowing every relevant fact.’
/>   Another stream of gurgled vowels answers him.

  Mortmain massages his shaven head and slips back into silent reverie. ‘The young one,’ he says finally, ‘the baron’s son. I think the Novator called him Palchus. He is clearly unstable. I’m sure we could use that to our advantage. The Domitus is a large ship, after all. I imagine he might easily get lost.’

  There is a rumble of laughter, accompanied by the sound of chains, scraping across stone.

  Mortmain’s voice is full of distaste. ‘Be gentle, Cerbalus. I will soon have the death of a world on my conscience. Do not add to my burden.’

  Chapter Three

  Even through the howling wind, the sound of bolter fire is unmistakable as Brother Thymus spins backwards through the storm, a blackened hole in his breastplate.

  ‘Down,’ snaps Sergeant Halser over the vox, and the Relictors vanish from sight.

  Pylcrafte moans pitifully as he cowers between the sergeant and Brother-Librarian Comus. ‘We must be steadfast,’ he whimpers, trembling violently. ‘The dominion of the idolaters is–’

  Comus clamps a hand over his mouth and shoves him unceremoniously to the ground.

  Their cover is a narrow gulley, no more than four metres wide.

  ‘The next ridge,’ mutters Comus.

  Halser nods and looks back through the swirling dust clouds. Brother Thymus is lying on his side, convulsing. Blood and hydraulic fluid is spraying from his punctured chest armour and he seems unable to rise. He has fallen above the gulley and is completely exposed, but it is useless to think of saving him. The sound of his laboured breathing is terrible to hear. He will not survive.

  The sergeant is so furious that for a few seconds he cannot speak. How could he be so foolish as to lead his men into an ambush? Brother Thymus has served at his side in countless engagements. Inside Halser’s helmet, his cheeks flush purple with rage and he spits a prayer. ‘Everything that happens is the Emperor’s will.’ The words bring him no solace. He shakes his head and raises his hand, preparing to give an order.