The Emperor's Gift

by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

  He no longer answered. That may have been a good sign – a sign of deep healing. It may have been exactly the opposite. Nadion wasn’t sure, either.

  Malchadiel would often find me there, and draw me back to the bridge. Annika would do the same. Only Clovon and Vasilla would remain there with me; the former watching impassively with his inked and scarred visage, the latter praying as I mused, and occasionally asking questions about my brothers’ lives. Strangely, that soothed me. Speaking of them lanced the wound of their loss, making their absence in my mind a little less keen.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said to her, one night.

  She didn’t feign ignorance. She smiled her slow, patient smile – an expression far too wise for her tender years – and simply said: ‘It’s nothing.’

  Garven Merrick visited me once, while I pored over the latest reports of our so-called ‘cold war’ with the Wolves. Each of these read exactly as they were: short lists of incidents where the Inquisition reported the annihilation of a colony, city or space station, balanced by incidents where Grey Knights or Inquisition vessels had arrived to face overwhelming Space Wolves blockades around the target.

  There was little meat to the reports, and nothing in the way of actual conflict. The Wolves never waited for long, nor did they return fire when fired upon. Their desire was to evacuate every soul they could, and scatter them from our paths.

  And it was working. Week by week, system by system, it was working all too well. Five months into the war of massacres, raids and running away, it wasn’t difficult to see that we’d never catch every single loose end. The strands had frayed too far. Some of the souls who’d seen our secrets were going to escape. Hell, they already had.

  The Barsavan Dragoons were the finest example in the records. The Wolves had scuttled the Barsavans’ troop ship themselves after leading several of our ships into a deep-space chase, and proceeded to leave the survivors on random Imperial worlds across a number of subsectors. What hope was there to find a few thousand soldiers on a world with three billion people? What worlds should we even begin to target for investigation, let alone Exterminatus?

  The Grey Knights realised the Wolves’ game earlier than the inquisitors holding our leashes. On more than one occasion in hololithic transmission meetings, I’d been forced to watch Lord Inquisitor Kysnaros shouting down all counter-arguments offered by members of our order. He was still certain containment could be reached. It could, of course – logic dictates that it’s true, but the cost in lives to reach containment was becoming ludicrous.

  In truth, there’s little of relevance to add to the archives. For every purge we completed as ordered, another elsewhere across the Imperium was failing due to the Wolves’ interference. Never once did they let us bring them to battle. Never once did they let us catch them unawares.

  Captain Castor once told me the majority of his life was spent waiting for something to happen. Even as overseer on a Grey Knights warship, he spent a significant portion of his time in warp transit, travelling for weeks on end at the beginning and end of every operation. And on the rare occasions the Karabela fought in a void battle, she easily outclassed most enemies, or was agile enough to flee if necessary. The months we spent chasing the Wolves and erasing all records of Armageddon exemplified Castor’s boredom.

  Do it enough, and even the immoral becomes the mundane. You acclimatise. You become desensitised. How many civilian targets, annihilated from above, could I mourn as fiercely as I’d regretted the first?

  I was in Castian’s communal chamber, reading through the last briefing reports, when Garven Merrick came to speak with me. As usual, he wore his battered, scratched enforcer armour, though without the heaviest plates on the shoulders and chest. His bulky shotgun was slung over one shoulder, as casual as a hunter out for a day’s sport.

  The cyber-mastiff walked at his heels, though perhaps a more accurate word for the way it moved would be loped, surprisingly close to a real canine in its movements.

  +Hello, Faith,+ I sent to the mechanical beast. I wasn’t sure of the creature’s exact mechanics, but something in its artificial brain always seemed to register my silent greetings. Still, it was never impressed. This time it regarded me for a moment with disinterested eye lenses, then went back to scanning its surroundings in a slow pan of its head.

  ‘Sir,’ Merrick greeted me. ‘May I speak with you?’

  These were literally the first words we’d ever shared, in over a year of operational duty together. Skimming his surface thoughts revealed that he wasn’t sure if he should salute or not. Old habits from his years as a law enforcement officer died hard.

  ‘There’s no need,’ I told him.

  ‘No need, sir?’

  ‘No need to salute.’

  He scowled at that, clearly not liking me in his head. ‘As you say, sir.’

  This wasn’t starting out well. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Force of instinct. What did you need, Garven?’

  ‘You know Inquisitor Jarlsdottyr well, don’t you?’

  The question unsettled me, mostly as I had no idea what the answer was. ‘I don’t know. I know her better than I know any other human.’ I paused. ‘Is that an acceptable answer?’

  ‘Good enough.’ Merrick was a man of few words, possessed of an unshaven awkwardness and a reluctance to make eye contact. I think that was why I found his company paradoxically easy to deal with. ‘I don’t pretend to understand your kind, sir.’

  ‘And I don’t pretend to understand yours,’ I replied, forcing a smile to show it was meant as a jest. He didn’t laugh.

  ‘Be that as it may, sir… you and the inquisitor are friends, aren’t you?’

  I looked at him for a moment. ‘You are adept at asking questions I find difficult to answer.’

  ‘Never mind, sir.’ He turned and made to leave.

  ‘Wait. Yes, she and I are friends. At least we were.’

  He turned back. ‘She’s angry. Furious, even. I’m worried about her. We all are.’

  ‘Am I to assume she’s told you our current orders?’

  ‘Yes, sir. To link up with Kysnaros’s armada at Haikaran, to offer terms to Jarl Grimnar.’

  I nodded. ‘And am I to assume Inquisitor Jarlsdottyr doesn’t trust Kysnaros’s intentions in this meeting?’

  ‘I think you already know she doesn’t trust him, sir.’

  Whether he’d be comfortable or not, I subtly leeched from his mind. He was telling the truth: his fears for Annika were that she’d lose her objectivity, her patience, and her temper. He worried that she would do something rash, and get herself killed.

  It also wasn’t why he was here. It was a lesser truth to conceal a greater one.

  ‘She is probably the most capable soul on this ship,’ I replied. ‘You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘She’s not immortal, though. And she has a temper, forgive me for saying so, sir.’

  As if I didn’t know that myself. ‘I will watch over her, Garven. You have my word. Was there anything else?’

  ‘No, sir. Well. Yes, sir. If you have time, that is. I was wondering if you’d ask the silver automaton to help me with something.’

  ‘His name is Axium. What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Faith. We’ve not docked in months, and I need new tools and parts to maintain her. The silver automaton might have them.’

  ‘He may indeed. I wouldn’t address him as “the silver automaton” to his face, however.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ I crouched down, and focused on the cyber-mastiff. ‘Faith, come.’

  ‘Faith, go,’ Merrick said. The dog thrummed and whirred on active joints as she stalked closer to me. I looked at the scratches marking her jagged jaws, and the hazard striping marking her flanks.

  She seemed fine to me, but I was hardly an expert on the matter. ‘Malchadiel may be able to help you, as well. You should speak to him.’

  Merrick actually went pale. ‘No, s
ir. He’ll… I’ve seen how he takes things apart with his mind.’

  I had to smile. ‘I see your point. I’ll tell Axium you’re on your way.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ He saluted, quite unnecessarily. Faith turned to regard me, and loped around her master’s legs.

  The ship shook around us a few seconds later, hard enough to threaten our balance.

  ‘Rough ride,’ Merrick said.

  ‘That wasn’t us dropping from the warp,’ I said. ‘Something hit us.’

  The sirens began wailing, a backdrop to Mal’s voice.

  +Get to the bridge,+ he sent to me. +Kysnaros has started the war.+

  VIII

  We were already taking fire by the time I made it to the bridge. Castor was out of his throne, shouting at the helmsmen over the shuddering hull. Malchadiel was by the bank of weapons consoles, looking over the officers’ shoulders.

  The occulus showed a single vessel, the capital ship Scramaseax, taking a pounding no Imperial warship should ever have to receive. Void-fires ravaged its battlement-spine, while a visibly weak shield buckled and flickered in and out of existence.

  I vaulted the railing and landed by Malchadiel.

  ‘Throne, look at her,’ I said. ‘She’s already half-crippled. Who fired first?’

  Malchadiel’s expression said it all. ‘Hazard a wild guess, brother.’

  I turned to Castor. ‘Status report.’

  ‘You’re seeing it, sir.’ Castor straightened his leather coat, brushing imaginary dust from a gold button with a casual swipe of his gloved hand. ‘We dropped from the warp to link up with Kysnaros’s armada. The fleet was already in battle.’

  ‘Have we received any orders?’

  ‘Only to open fire as soon as we reach weapons range.’

  ‘How many other vessels are there in our armada?’

  Malchadiel reached to manipulate the tactical hololith with the sensory pressure pads in his fingertips. He turned the star field, highlighting the vessels ship by ship.

  ‘I count fifteen, including the Karabela.’

  I watched Logan Grimnar’s flagship turning and burning in the void, protected by a flawed and failing shield. As I watched the ancient flagship of a Space Wolves Great Company breaking apart, I felt it scoring its way into my memory. I’d never forget this moment. Never. This was supposed to be a truce on neutral ground. We were ordered here to stand by while Kysnaros parleyed terms, and brought the months of idiocy and frustration to an end.

  For once, the Wolves were fighting back. In this case, too little, too late. The Scramaseax retaliated with insignificant weapon bursts, flailing back at enemies it was now too wounded to harm.

  Malchadiel was distant, but not dispassionate, as he gestured towards the struggling cruiser.

  ‘That ship is older than our Chapter, Hyperion. By killing it, we’re spitting in the face of our own species’ history.’

  ‘Kysnaros has gone too far.’ I didn’t understand any of this. ‘Why did the Wolves only show up with one ship?’

  ‘They didn’t. They showed up with five.’ Malchadiel turned the starscape to a better angle. It was then that I saw the wreckage. This battle was hours old.

  ‘Castor, get me a link to Lord Joros on the Fire of Dawn.’ While I waited, I watched the beleaguered Scramaseax rolling in the void – a wounded animal baring its belly.

  ‘Karabela?’

  ‘It’s Hyperion. What am I seeing, my lord? Grey Knights vessels opening fire on a First Founding Chapter. This… this is blasphemy.’

  ‘Accelerate to attack speed and engage the enemy. Cripple that ship, Hyperion, and be ready to teleport to the Fire of Dawn at my order. We have the Wolf Lord by the throat.’

  ‘Sire… We were told this was a parley on neutral ground.’

  ‘It was.’ His voice was breaking apart in vox-distortion. ‘Lord Inquisitor Kysnaros suspected the Wolves of treachery. We opened fire before they had the chance.’

  ‘And you believe that, my lord?’

  He had the audacity to laugh, despite the gravity of the moment. ‘Not for a second. But this is our chance, brother. We take Grimnar captive, and his Chapter will kneel in submission.’

  ‘This is perfidy, Joros. It leeches any honour our order ever laid claim to.’

  Castor shook his head. ‘The signal’s lost, sir.’

  I stood in dumbstruck silence for several seconds, just watching the Scramaseax die.

  The next voice I heard was that of Lord Inquisitor Kysnaros, over a fleet-wide address.

  ‘Jarl Grimnar of the Scramaseax. Your ship bleeds fire, and your life is measured in mere moments. By virtue of the power vested in me by His Imperial Majesty, I am empowered to offer you a last chance to serve the Golden Throne. Lay down your arms and come aboard the battle-barge Fire of Dawn, if you wish to discuss the terms of your surrender. If you would rather die where you are, too proud to admit you’re beaten, then by all means transmit any last words you have. We will honour your Chapter by ringing the Bell of Lost Souls once you’re lost to history’s pages.’

  I didn’t expect a response. I honestly expected them to die in proud silence, aboard their wounded flagship. I’d even have admired them for it.

  ‘We will meet,’ came the throaty reply. ‘We’ll meet and discuss terms.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Kysnaros was all smiles, even over the vox. There was nothing snide or petty in his tone, which only made it worse. He sounded happy, beaming, to have been able to enlighten a lesser mind into the perfectly obvious course of action. ‘Today may have dawned in darkness, Jarl Grimnar, but the sun will set over a final peace.’

  The Space Wolves ship’s reply was a grunt of static, followed by silence.

  ‘Mal,’ I said. ‘We need to get ready.’ +Annika?+

  ‘Hyperion? I’m on my way to the bridge. What’s happening?’

  +The endgame. Meet us at the teleportation platform.+

  ‘I outrank you, Hyperion. I’d be coming whether you wished it or not. Nothing could keep me away.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE KNEELING KING

  I

  We stood in ordered ranks this time, under Lord Joros’s keen and traditional eye. With reinforcements from Titan and across the galaxy, we numbered almost a full hundred again, with countless more knights on their way, aboard a host of ships.

  The gathering was a grim reflection of the first time we’d met the Great Wolf, aboard the Ruler of the Black Skies above Armageddon. This time, we were reinforced by a full company of Inquisitorial storm troopers clad in black carapace armour, faintly reminiscent of upright chitinous insects. Annika and the other inquisitors were no longer content to stand at the sides and allow a Grey Knights Grand Master to deal with matters alone. They took centre-stage, with Lord Kysnaros heading that particular group, very much the first among equals.

  By virtue of rank, Joros stood alongside the inquisitor, towering above the humans surrounding him. His greying hair seemed touched by frost in the harsh overhead light of the hangar bay.

  Logan Grimnar descended his gunship’s ramp, his armour blackened and battered, with only three Wolf Guard at his back. Against all odds, I recognised one of them. Brand Rawthroat scanned our gathered ranks, and nodded once his eyes met mine.

  I returned the gesture, risking a telepathic pulse. +It grieves me to see you here, brother.+

  His smile was a curled lip, revealing a fanged incisor. ‘I lost my ship months ago.’ I sensed his amusement at the moment. ‘Now get out of my head, warlock. Watch how a Wolf surrenders.’

  Jarl Grimnar pulled his axe free once he reached Kysnaros and the Grand Master. Every inquisitor tensed, and several of their warband-warriors clutched weapons tighter. With no telepathic signal, we didn’t move.

  ‘That’s far enough,’ said Lord Joros. He made no move to reach for a weapon. He was, as always, possessed of a most admirable calm. Galeo had often considered self-control to be our Grand Master’s most prized virtue.

 
Jarl Grimnar obeyed, halting ten paces away from the gathered Inquisitorial retinue. He let the axe-head slam onto the deck, and leaned on the inverted haft, scarred gauntlets resting on the black iron pommel.

  ‘You betrayed an armistice,’ he said in that voice so like spilling gravel. His tawny hair, white-streaked and singed in places, was a matted mess framing his gnarled-oak features. He wasn’t ancient for a Space Marine, but he was certainly past his mid-life prime. Still, he emanated vitality even in his most modest movements; here was a tough old soul that wouldn’t easily fall. Even now, he showed no sign of capitulation.

  ‘Yes, we betrayed the armistice,’ Kysnaros conceded. ‘I pray you’ll forgive me, in time. You have to understand, great jarl, that your Chapter’s reputation with Imperial command hierarchy calls the worth of your sworn oaths into question. How many times have you come into conflict with the Ecclesiarchy? Or the Inquisition’s lesser elements? I wasn’t sure I could trust you.’

  Grimnar smiled, showing old teeth in a nasty grin. ‘You violated an armistice, killed thousands of my Chapter’s servants, and now name us oathbreakers when you – as always – fired first.’

  He looked back over his shoulder to his three remaining Wolf Guard. ‘This is why we so rarely speak to outlanders, eh? No manners.’

  The Wolves chuckled, as Grimnar looked back to Kysnaros. ‘You wished to speak with me? I’m here, boy. Speak.’

  Boy. It was difficult to dispute that judgement. This was my first time in Inquisitor Kysnaros’s physical presence, and he seemed much younger than his poor-quality hololithic images had suggested. I had no doubt rejuvenat surgery played a part in his youth, of course. He couldn’t truly be as young as he appeared; no man or woman in their mid-twenties could ever rise to the rank of Lord Inquisitor. Such ascensions usually took centuries, and a legion of allies, favours and supporters.

  He wore nothing in the way of armour, and carried no weapon beyond a golden sceptre of office. If anything, he seemed more preacher than inquisitor, robed in deep reds, with a silken hood pulled down to reveal his features.