The Emperor's Gift

by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

  On more than one occasion I’d stood with her and her warband in the communal showers after training, blind and numb to any sensation of desire, watching her wash her hair and listening to her speak of serving in the sweltering jungles of Voroxis, killing heretics who spilled from a downed rogue trader vessel.

  Bizarrely, the Khatan had declared, upon seeing me wash myself, that my ascension to knighthood was ‘a great shame’. Captain Castor had explained the meaning to me several months later, though I still didn’t see the humour in it.

  Inquisitor Jarlsdottyr had grown colder to me since Armageddon’s aftermath, only reinforcing her natural stubbornness. She was Fenrisian, and she was on the edge of war with her own High King. Beyond that, she was an inquisitor. She answered to no one.

  Tonight, I decided she would answer to me.

  Still, for all our shared experience, there was one thing I wasn’t prepared to walk in and see.

  Malchadiel stood in her chamber, armed and armoured as always. Axium was next to him, flanked by several of his senior tech-priests. Darford, Clovon, the Khatan, Vasilla, Merrick and Faith all stood in a loose crescent with the others – each of them armed and in their eclectic clash of uniforms and armour.

  The occulus monitor on her wall showed a quad-screened display of four faces: two female, two male, each of them an inquisitor I recognised from the hangar bay when we’d captured Jarl Grimnar. Present in hololithic form were seven – seven – Grey Knights, four of whom were of justicar rank, from a variety of brotherhoods. Their flickering holo-avatars were projected from the imagifier table against one wall.

  Annika stood at the heart of this gathering, her Cretacian bolter slung over one shoulder, hanging by its worn strap. Her dark hair was swept back in a spiralling braid, and her face was marked with fresh tribal hunting paint. She’d clearly been in the middle of addressing everyone.

  ‘Hyperion,’ she said.

  I stood in silence. I may have blinked. Either way, I’m certain I looked as foolish as I felt.

  ‘Is there something you need?’ she asked.

  I looked over the gathering one by one. ‘I’m going to kill Lord Inquisitor Kysnaros,’ I said.

  She didn’t miss a beat. ‘Come in, then. Your ideas are as welcome as anyone else’s.’

  ‘How long as has this been going on?’

  ‘Long enough.’ Annika grinned.

  ‘Forgive me, brother,’ Malchadiel said quietly. ‘We feared to bring you in among us.’

  ‘In the Emperor’s name, Mal… why?’

  Annika was the one to answer. ‘We thought you might say no.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  FENRIS

  I

  They say Fenris breeds cold souls. One had only to look at the world from orbit to see why.

  From above, no world looked bleaker – not the thirsting wastes of Tallarn, nor the tropical chaos of Volaxis. Fenris was a world at war with itself. Somewhere in the twisted trails of its history, something had aggravated the planet’s very soul. The sea warred with the land, swallowing continents whole, every decade or two, only to disgorge new landmasses – rank with soil poisoned by seawater – elsewhere on the globe. These sour landscapes battled the sky, punching mountains heavenwards in breathtaking ranges unmatched anywhere else in mankind’s galaxy.

  Even from orbit, it was clear Fenris could never sustain civilised life. Cities would sink at the whims of the drowning seas, and what few landmasses seemed stable were earth-dead from eternal winter. Agriculture didn’t exist on that world. No Fenrisian was ever born a farmer, and none ever became one later in life. The people who called the world home were reavers, raiders, hunters and sailors. It must be said, they made excellent stock for an Adeptus Astartes breeding world.

  I’d read that Fenrisian myth blamed their world’s instability on a great kraken – a creature of the deepest seas – that wrapped its tentacles around the planet’s core and strangled the world’s heart. The human imagination never ceased to fascinate me. Against all reason, a human man or woman could convince themselves of anything.

  We watched the world turn beneath us, dotted by occasional storms over the frost-choked land, but existing in slow ignorance of its potential death that we carried in our warships’ weapon bays.

  ‘It looks so different,’ Annika said, staring at the occulus. ‘The islands I knew even a handful of years ago are already drowned, and new ones have risen, with new wars and new raids fought to claim them.’

  She sounded almost wistful.

  Fenris, like any home world of the Adeptus Astartes, boasted a legion of defences. A network of orbital missile platforms and weaponised satellites ringed the world with incendiary teeth, while the Wolves’ fortress-monastery, known variously as the Aett, the Fang, and a host of other names, was hewn from a great range of mountains, and reached high enough into the sky that its tallest spires linked with the orbital dockyards. In a galaxy of wonders, Fenris from orbit managed to take my breath away. Nature at its most tectonically savage, blanketed in neverending winter.

  The sternest deterrent to any souls brave or foolhardy enough to lay siege to a fortress-monastery world was the Chapter’s battlefleet. Our ramshackle void campaign had taken care of that last, best line of defence better than any of us had predicted. The Wolves’ ships had been called away in packs – first to bear troops into the meat grinder at Armageddon, then over a span of months to defend escaping troop ships or isolated void stations from predation at our hands, across any number of sectors.

  The Wolves were only one Chapter, stretched thin and bled dry. Honour, they possessed in abundance – but honour doesn’t build ships or breed Space Marines. Honour doesn’t defend a world without warships in the sky.

  A lone vessel suckled at the cold comfort of its home world’s orbital docks. A lone strike cruiser, docked at the Fang’s apex, scarred from its own crusades and badly in need of repair. Such a ship would usually have an escort of frigates and destroyers, though none were in evidence. Perhaps they’d risked even those out in the aftermath of Armageddon, trusting in the Aett’s impregnable defences.

  But we had no need to besiege the fortress itself, when we could pull the world apart beneath its very foundations.

  Kysnaros shared nothing of his intent. He was a hololithic presence among us – a ghost on every bridge – watching and keeping his own counsel. Occasionally, a Red Hunter captain would materialise next to him, speaking of fleet formations or angles of effective planetary bombardment, before shimmering back out of existence.

  Nor did he reveal the extent of his ties to the Red Hunters.

  ‘I’ve found nothing,’ Annika admitted. ‘Kysnaros lives and serves outside the ordos. His power and influence are from a past he chooses not to share, rather than laid bare in a paper trail others can follow.’

  The armada spread across the Fenrisian heavens, ringing the Fang’s spires and turning all weapons down to face the planet. Kysnaros waited until every vessel was in place, according to his preset coordinates, before appearing before us.

  A servo-skull projected his image. The skull of a human male – jawless and augmented by anti-gravitic suspensors – floated along at approximately human height. That brought it to my chest. The drone bobbed and weaved through the air in a calm drift, its right eye socket clicking and ticking as it projected Kysnaros’s image.

  Talwyn was less than amused. I don’t think he liked being watched on his own bridge.

  ‘Does every ship in the fleet have one of these now?’

  ‘I believe so,’ Malchadiel replied.

  I said nothing. I merely watched Kysnaros. For once, he wore a suit of contoured power armour, sculpted to resemble the musculature of a slender, healthy human male. A cloak of wolf fur completed the uncharacteristically militant look. I didn’t want to know how he’d come to be in possession of such a thing. The idea that he’d stolen it from one of our captives was abhorrent, as was the possibility he’d looted it from the dead.

&nbs
p; Despite his new, lordly attire, his hololithic avatar was formed from pelucid, thin light, as it walked among the crews gathered on every bridge deck.

  I didn’t hate him. I wanted to, but I couldn’t muster the requisite depth of emotion. None of us hated him, not even Annika. Hatred thrives on familiarity and intimacy, and struggles to grow in less fertile hearts. He wasn’t a figure of loathing and lies, cackling at the notion of genocide for bloodshed’s own sake. He was merely a man, one we scarcely knew, who turned our talents to unwholesome ends. Pragmatism moved him above all else. In that regard, he was no different from any one of a thousand other inquisitors. He was no worse than any one of a hundred Grey Knights, either. Many of our order might even have admired him for his conservative behaviour in the aftermath of Armageddon.

  The occulus painted a bleak picture. Fenris was as close to undefended as it might possibly be. A lone strike cruiser in orbit seemed a custodian of sorts, perhaps here by chance, perhaps assigned in perpetuity to watch over the world below. I learned much later that it had sustained significant damage mere weeks before, aiding an Imperial Navy patrol in the local region in a suppression action against a pirate fleet. At the time, I merely saw the burn marks tiger-striping its pockmarked hull, and wondered if this, truly, was all the Wolves had left in the vicinity, with their fleet engaged elsewhere.

  And our ships were faster, by far. Even had it come down to a race to reach Fenris, the Wolves were weeks behind. Were several Fenrisian warships even now bolting through the Sea of Souls to reach their home world and form a bulwark against invasion? Probably. Likely, even. By the time they broke from the warp, it would all be over, one way or another.

  I watched the warship’s engines open up, the booster housings rolling back to breathe hotter, wider, whiter into space. Once under way, the warship rolled and turned in a precise drift, until it came abeam of Corel’s Hope.

  ‘Why have you not answered our hails?’ came a voice from the ship’s command deck.

  ‘In all honesty,’ Kysnaros replied, ‘I’ve been seeking the right words. I never meant for it to end this way. I still pray we might finish this lamentable conflict without further bloodshed. Tell me, noble Wolf of Fenris, do you know why we’ve come? Do you know why I’ve brought this mighty fleet into the stars above your world?’

  Captain Castor paid no attention to the exchange. His focus rested on the screeds of data uploaded from the lone vessel.

  ‘They’re running out their guns,’ he said. ‘And charging their void shields, though the damage they’re showing means they won’t last six seconds against even a tenth of our fleet.’

  ‘We know why you’ve come.’ The voice held less warmth than a stone. ‘You’ve come to see Fenris bleed, to soothe the shame of your own black heart. Kill every man, woman and child who knows of your cowardice, and you can go back to feigning bravery. Aye, inquisitor. I am Taurangian the Cutter, and I know why you’ve come.’

  Kysnaros’s reply was heavy with abject regret, all the more repellant because of its aching sincerity. The Lord Inquisitor was a soul forever speaking as if the weight of the Imperium’s worlds rested upon his shoulders.

  ‘Is there none among your Chapter that can wield reason and wit as well as an axe? Must every confrontation end with recrimination?’

  ‘What do you want from us? We will never bend the knee to you. We will never bare our throats to end this war. What do you want that we would ever willingly give?’

  ‘An end to this. I want to speak with one who can end it, before it truly begins.’

  The answer was almost a minute in coming. ‘Aye, lord. There’s one among us like that.’

  Kysnaros’s hololith was flickering in and out of focus, strangled by interference from so many ships close by. ‘Your world and your Chapter stand on the very edge of ruin, Taurangian. If you have one who can speak for the Wolves, then bring him forth. I pray only that he uses wiser words than your High King did. Both sides must compromise, and for go yet more attempts at heroics.’

  ‘Give us four hours,’ replied Taurangian.

  ‘You will have it,’ promised Kysnaros.

  His avatar turned, looking with slow care around the bridge – around every bridge, I assume. He stared right through Malchadiel, Annika, Castor, and a half-dozen crew officers.

  ‘Hyperion,’ his hololith said, without warning. The flickering image was looking directly at me.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘You are the one the Fenrisians name Bladebreaker, aren’t you?’

  ‘One Fenrisian named me that, lord. I cannot speak for all of them.’

  ‘But you broke the primarch’s blade.’

  ‘I did, lord.’

  He nodded, and looked away into the middle distance. ‘May I speak with you, please? On board Corel’s Hope?’

  II

  He stood within an occularium, alone but for the monitors lining the walls, which were so numerous and dense that they reminded me of scales along a reptile’s hide. Each screen displayed a view from the command deck of one of the fleet’s ships, letting him see through the eyes of his servo-skulls.

  He smiled when I entered, and blanked the screens with a vague wave of his hand. A psyker, then. Formidable, surely. As powerful as myself or Malchadiel? Unlikely.

  +Don’t be so certain.+ He smiled again as he sent the words.

  ‘You summoned me, lord?’

  He shook his head, the smile fading. ‘Quite the opposite. I asked you to come.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I wished to speak in private, Hyperion. We have to end this, and end it now. Wait. Let me finish. I already see resistance in your eyes, but listen for a moment. Mistakes have been made. I shoulder the burden of blame. But there’s still time. The Wolves can escape destruction, and the Inquisition will leave them in peace. We simply need to guide the process.’

  I looked at him in disbelief. ‘You’ve brought an entire Chapter, and a battlefleet, into the skies above their home world. Even if you turn tail and run right away, they will never forgive the Inquisition.’

  ‘There are two sides to every coin. Have I mustered an entire Chapter in support of this fleet? Yes, but only to show the Wolves they cannot claim the moral high ground as members of the precious Adeptus Astartes. Not when another Chapter stands in opposition to them.’

  ‘The Grey Knights already stood with you, against them.’

  He shook his head, meeting my eyes. ‘Out of a tenuous loyalty alone. Many more of your brothers could – and should – have joined us by now. Do you not think it strange that they haven’t?’

  ‘The galaxy is a vast place, lord. We are only a thousand men. Little more than eight hundred now, in the aftermath of Armageddon and the Months of Shame.’

  ‘The Months of Shame.’ Kysnaros gave a small snort. ‘How strange to hear the name history will remember you by. No worse than I deserve, admittedly. But you’re right. The Grey Knights have a greater, wider calling than this debacle. Which is why I’ve not summoned them. I could have. Many inquisitors would have by now. But I have no desire to pull them away from their other duties. Even if I did, it presupposes the Grey Knights will actually fire if I had to give the order.’

  He looked at me for several heartbeats. ‘And will they?’

  ‘Some may.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Kysnaros replied, raking his hands through his long hair again. ‘Some may. Most will not. This is not your role, and not your place. I am guilty of dragging you away from your Emperor-sworn mandate, and into the politics of the Imperium. For that, I apologise.’

  ‘It… surprises me to hear you speak this way, lord.’

  ‘I’m sure it does. The Red Hunters are a blunt instrument to the Sons of Titan’s scalpel. They will fire, Hyperion. And they’ll count it a great honour to do so. Even so, I brought them to make my point with their presence, not their warships’ guns. The Wolves must stand down. The alternative is too grotesque to countenance. Skirmishes in the void are one thing. So wh
at if a little pride gets wounded and a handful of men lose their lives? That means nothing in the scale of the Imperium. Savaging a First Founding home world is a different and darker tale. It’s far beyond sanity. But the Wolves must stand down. They cannot question the Throne like this. It cannot be allowed. What can I do?’

  This wasn’t going the way I’d expected. I’d been so certain I’d come here alone, safe in the knowledge he’d be dead once I left. I said nothing. I simply watched him.

  Kysnaros laughed. ‘Yes, well, murder is a bold move, but I understand why you feel forced into it. If I haven’t dissuaded you yet, I hope to have done so by the time you leave.’

  I guarded my thoughts tighter, closer, behind a wall of concentration. There are certain deceptions to learn, a wealth of simple exercises that can shield one’s thoughts when willpower alone will not suffice. I focused part of my attention counting the beats of my heart, and trying to count his at the same time.

  ‘Very nicely done.’ He smiled again. ‘Now all I hear are the numbers accruing in your mind. A child’s trick, but a timeless one. I’ve used it myself often enough.’

  ‘Why didn’t you force Jarl Grimnar to heed your commands? You’re powerful enough to do it through psychic imprint alone.’

  He sighed, shaking his head. ‘Some stories have no villain, Hyperion. Merely a mix of souls, each seeking to find where the answers lie. Help me, damn you. Stop staring at me with your eyes full of judgement and help me. How can we end this? Shackling Grimnar to my will would damn him in the eyes of his Chapter. They’d declare war on the Adeptus Terra, and how many Chapters would join them? Even one would be too many. I will not preside over another Badab War, a reliving of the Reign of Blood, or a second Nova Terra Interregnum.’

  ‘What did Lord Joros advise you?’

  ‘Poor Joros. Noble to the last, taking the blame for my orders.’ Kysnaros paced the room. ‘He advised threatening them, showing them our own strength, drawing comparisons to alpha male animals in the wild. It sounded right, Hyperion. It felt right.’