‘What in the Seven Hells are you talking about, cadet?’
‘Commissar, you were sent to Phaedra from… from somewhere else,’ Reve gestured vaguely towards the sky. ‘You arrived with rank and honours, but I was born in the mud and blood of this war – just another Guard brat among thousands. This is the only world I have known. There is no schola progenium here, only the Skywatch Academies. They are the only path to advancement for my kind.’
‘But you trained under Lomax?’
‘Only because I am of the Skywatch!’ With a snort she ripped the badge from her lapel. ‘But if they murdered the High Commissar I want no part of them.’
‘Be careful, Reve.’
‘I am done being careful.’ She flipped the badge overboard with an indifferent flick and stalked away, leaving Iverson frowning at her back.
You almost had me there, but you overcooked it again at the end, girl.
His frown turned to a sour smile as he noticed Bierce standing vigil at the prow of the ship. The old revenant had his back to Iverson, intent on the dismal coastline of Dolorosa Vermillion rising on the horizon. Seven long months ago the Arkan 19th had landed on those shores and disappeared into Hell.
And wherever you’ve gone, brothers, be sure that I’ll follow.
Iverson’s grin faded as he realised his augmetic hand had jammed up, locking his grip to the railing.
Day 10 – Vermillion Sound: The Broken Man
I have returned to the Mire and my ghosts have returned to me, creeping back one by one, as I always knew they would. It is only right and proper, for Commander Wintertide still lives and my penance is not yet done. Fortunately their restoration has blessed me with a strange clarity. I am now certain that this hunt for my rogue kinsmen is part of my greater quest. It cannot be coincidence that our threads have crossed the stars to interweave in the Dolorosa Coil. Somehow Ensor Cutler will be the key to my salvation. Somehow he will open the door to Wintertide.
Yet despite my conviction I cannot put Lomax’s death – her murder – from my mind. I believe the High Commissar knew her enemies were closing in and the scarlet dossier is her last testament against them. If I don’t accept it she may yet rise and make my trio of ghosts into four. I have welcomed my shades back, but I will not countenance another on my conscience. No, it’s time to face her will.
I have the dossier beside me, but I cannot seem to rally my thoughts. With nightfall the mouldy reek of the Mire has become almost overpowering in the confines of my cabin…
Iverson’s Journal
Iverson paused, his pen hovering over the page as he listened for the sound. A moment later it came again – a low, ragged rasp, like a man struggling for breath. He turned slowly, his hand slipping towards his holster as he squinted into the murk of the cabin. The lantern perched on his desk cast a flickering aura that merely taunted the gloom. Iverson rose to his feet and raised the lamp over his head, trying to throw back the crowding shadows. There was something lurking at the threshold to his small washroom.
‘You ain’t got no call for the shooter,’ the intruder said. Its voice was little more than a hoarse croak, but the accent was unmistakeable, even though Iverson hadn’t heard that thick burr in decades. Arkan.
‘Show yourself,’ Iverson demanded.
‘Not a problem, but I got to warn you, I ain’t a pretty sight, brother.’ The shape shook with something between a chuckle and cough, sounding uncannily like the infested admiral. Suddenly Iverson recognised the rancid ordure wafting from the shape – it was the same stench that had permeated Karjalan’s chambers.
‘You’re no brother to me,’ Iverson said.
‘I heard you talking up on deck,’ the shape drawled wetly. ‘I can tell you’ve been gone a while, but you ain’t lost your Providence twang. You’re Arkan. In this hellhole that makes us brothers.’ With that the speaker stepped from the shadows. He was a massive, craggy-faced brute, naked save for a filthy medical smock. His mottled skin hung from his bones in sagging wattles, as if his flesh had been sucked dry.
‘The name’s Modine, Private third class, 19th Arkan Confederates,’ the intruder said. ‘And I could sure use a drink if you’ve got anything going.’
Day 11 – The Shell and Dolorosa Breach: The Sleeping Front
We sailed through the Shell at dawn. The coral maze was deserted, long abandoned by the Imperial forces that had followed in Cutler’s footsteps. The men of Dolorosa Breach had occupied the necropolis for less than a week before evacuating to the saner, safer horrors of the Mire. We found them a couple of leagues upriver, entrenched in a sprawling tract of burned jungle. Cadet Reve was dismayed by the chaos, but the ragtag army was no worse than I’d expected. Thanks to Cutler’s efforts our advance has staggered a little further inland, only to falter into stagnation once more. I suspect they haven’t moved in months.
We stopped off for supplies and I took the opportunity to requisition fatigues and a flamer for the fugitive who crept into my quarters last night. I’m not entirely sure what to make of Private Kletus Modine and his escape from the Puissance, but he was right about one thing – we are both Arkan and I cannot surrender him to the Sea Spider. Besides, after the horrors I witnessed on board that death ship I have no reason to doubt his story.
For the record, Modine told me he was the last survivor of three troopers taken by force and bled dry to curb the admiral’s disease. I won’t elaborate on the lurid details of his torment and escape, but it seems he got wind of our arrival and made a break for it, surprising the captors who thought him comatose. He’s brazen to the point of insubordination and tests my patience relentlessly, almost as if he’s daring me to shoot him, but I won’t do it. There’s more to Kletus Modine than meets the eye and he may yet prove to be my only ally on this journey. I have claimed a storage berth alongside my cabin for the stowaway. For the time being he will remain my secret.
Oh yes, there was one more thing: a prisoner waiting for us at the Breach…
Iverson’s Journal
‘Please, you have to get me back to my squadron,’ the haggard youth in the tattered jumpsuit pleaded. ‘I’m a pilot, you see. And a member of the Skywatch!’
‘I understand, Airman Garrido,’ Iverson said coldly, ‘but you’ll have to give me something on the renegades if you want my help.’
‘But I’ve told you everything I know! The scum hijacked my ship and flew us into the Shell. I swear I fought them, but that old heretic Ortega betrayed me! And then they all turned on the Letheans…’
‘And you’re quite certain that Cutler killed the confessor personally?’
‘I saw it myself. That white-haired savage is insane. He was like a man possessed, but they were all bloody barbarians! Now please, you can’t let me rot down here…’
Iverson dismissed the pilot, already convinced he knew nothing more. Jaime Garrido had been found hiding out in the Shell, abandoned when the renegades fled upriver. The commissars of the Breach had kept him locked away in anticipation of this fleeting, fruitless interrogation.
The pilot was still pleading when Iverson walked away. For Jaime Hernandez Garrido it was the end of the road.
Day 13 – The Qalaqexi River: Modine’s Blasphemy
Tonight I returned to my quarters and found Modine trawling through Lomax’s testament. The scarlet ribbon lay on the floor and her precious secrets were scattered about my desk: classified troop and munitions reports, officer psych assessments, tactical maps and surveillance picts and Emperor knows what else, all passing through the grubby hands of a diseased greyback. He met my shock with a cheerful leer…
Iverson’s Journal
‘You needed a push,’ Modine said. ‘I seen you staring at this thing like it was a ticking bomb. You was too scared to open it, but too hungry to back off. Well you’ve been good to me, so I figured I’d lend a hand, chief.’
The insolenc
e washed over Iverson as he approached the muddle of papers. Now that the secrets were out their call was hypnotic, reducing Modine to a faintly irritating irrelevance.
‘Of course, I ain’t never been too sharp with my letters,’ Modine went on, ‘so I ain’t got too far…’
‘Leave,’ Iverson interrupted, his eyes never straying from the documents.
‘Aw, come on, Holt…’
Iverson spun round and Modine found himself staring down the barrel of an autopistol. The commissar’s surviving eye bored into him, an open window to somewhere glacial and unforgiving. To the greyback it looked less human than its augmetic partner. Modine raised his hands slowly. ‘Hey, no worries, brother.’
Iverson’s face twitched with an involuntary spasm. ‘Out,’ he said.
Keeping his eyes on the gun, Modine nodded and backed out of the cabin. Iverson’s ghosts took his place, drifting from the shadows to encircle their beacon as he sank into a chair and began to read.
Day 16 – The Qalaqexi River: The Wages of Truth
I haven’t stirred from my cabin since the night Lomax’s plague of truths was loosed, but there’s still so much to digest. It will take weeks to sift through her catalogue of errors and inconsistencies and accounts of sheer stupidity and bloody-minded madness, but one thing is already certain: we have all been betrayed.
Iverson’s Journal
Reve was pounding at his cabin door again.
‘I’m busy,’ Iverson growled, rubbing at his surviving eye. The augmetic one was buzzing furiously, threatening to gnaw a hole through the back of his skull.
‘Sir, you have not been on deck in days,’ Reve called from behind the locked door. ‘The Letheans are beginning to ask questions.’
They should be asking questions, Reve. We should all have been asking questions long ago.
Day 17 – The Qalaqexi River: Seven Stars
We are sailing through no-man’s-land. The sleeping ghosts of the Shell and the Dolorosa Breach are far behind us. The hungry ghosts of the Qalaqexi Coil lie ahead. There are no Imperial forces past this point save for a few scattered jungle fighters working deep recon. We’re on our own and if we run into a significant rebel detachment we’ll soon be dead. But that’s unlikely to happen once the great river narrows and frays into the Coil.
I’ve never been this far inland, but I know the stories of the infamous labyrinth. There are dozens of paths to the heart of the continent and many more to nowhere at all. If we go slow and silent and the Emperor’s Grace goes with us, we might stay undetected for months. Of course logic dictates that this is a double-edged sword, for how will we in turn find our quarry? Well, my friend, this is where we must abandon logic and cleave to faith, or whatever else it is that guides us. You see, despite the odds I know that we shall find them. Or they shall find us…
Iverson’s Journal
‘I want this hoisted,’ Iverson said, unravelling the heavy banner. The Seven Stars of Providence glittered against its deep blue fabric, looking impossibly bright in the murky dawn light. The Lethean Mariners shuffled about, casting uneasy glances at their armoured overlords. One of the Corsairs stalked over and inspected the flag with unbridled disgust.
‘The Penitents, we do not sail under false idols,’ he growled.
‘You’re talking about the Seven Stars, the flag of my home world; a world that has stood by the God-Emperor for ten thousand years,’ Iverson lied, quite certain these ignorant zealots wouldn’t know any better.
‘But is Lethean ship…’
‘No, it’s the Emperor’s ship and I am His appointed servant on this holy mission. Do you question His word?’
The Corsair glared pure hatred at him, but Iverson paid him no heed. ‘Hoist it,’ he snapped at the Mariners. ‘Now!’
As the seadogs scurried to obey, Cadet Reve raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Before you ask, I had it commissioned back on the Antigone,’ Iverson said. ‘As to why, Cadet Reve… Why don’t you tell me?’
‘Obviously you are hoping to draw the renegades out,’ she answered without hesitation. ‘That was not my question, sir.’
‘Then enlighten me, cadet.’
‘If they do come, what will you say to them?’
‘What do you think I should say?’
She hesitated. The game between them was growing more treacherous by the day. Finally she made a cautious move: ‘That is not for me to say, sir.’
‘A good answer, Reve,’ Iverson said and turned his back on her.
Day 19 – The Qalaqexi River: The Mouth of the Coil
We entered the Coil at dusk. The jungle seemed to darken and close in around us as we slipped into the embrace of that primal morass. Even the Lethean thugs were unnerved by the change and I suspect there will be no end to their coarse prayers tonight. Dead Niemand, who approves of their ways, has urged me to share their worship, but I no longer believe the God-Emperor cares for such prattling. Like the Coil, my own faith has unravelled into something dark and tangled, yet I sense His hand pulling at the threads, urging me forward. I can only hope that He isn’t laughing.
Iverson’s Journal
It was raining again, the heavy drops punching through the dense canopy to spatter the leather-coated commissars standing watch on the upper deck. Iverson ignored it, so Reve ignored it too, their intransigence an unspoken bond.
‘What do you think we’ll find in here?’ she asked, eying the grey-green walls of the Mire seeping past on either side.
Vengeance, Niemand gloated.
Justice, Bierce glared.
Redemption, Number 27 beseeched.
‘All or nothing,’ Iverson said. My Thunderground, he thought.
PROVIDENCE MILITARY ARCHIVES,
CAPITOL HALL
REPORT: GF060526
STATUS: *CLASSIFIED*
FROM: Major Ranulph C. Kharter, Investigating Officer (Internal Affairs)
ATT: General Thaddeus Blackwood, Director (Internal Affairs)
REF: War Crimes – 19th Arkan – Trinity Township, Vyrmont
SUM: As per orders I have undertaken an investigation of the frontier township designated Trinity. Preliminary evidence supports claims the town was razed with maximum prejudice. All structures have been burned. A mass grave was discovered on the town perimeter (speculate intent of concealment) containing several hundred corpses. Despite advanced decomposition the bodies were clearly burned, but the cause of death appears to be various and violent. No evidence of significant rebel affiliations apparent.
CON: Further investigation recommended.
Note: What in the Hells did Cutler do to these poor bastards?
The bell tolled again, booming somewhere deep inside the prisoner’s gut. He moaned as he felt himself slipping back into the hungry old nightmare. Awakening again…
It was long after sunset, but the blizzard had stained the night white, transforming the old town into a blur of crooked silhouettes lost in static. The gale whistled through the narrow avenues like a forlorn ghost, stirring up the snow around the intruders as they pressed on toward the town square. Every man in the squad was half-frozen and bone-weary, but if there was any welcome to be had in this backwater burg it would surely be there.
We’ll find no welcome here. None that we’ll be glad of anyways...
Major Ensor Cutler thrust the gloomy thought aside, irritated by the dark mood hanging over him. It was strange that victory had left him feeling so hollow, but word of the rebels’ final surrender had reached the 19th late, catching the regiment deep in the Vyrmont rifts with the first frost of winter already in the air. They had been hounding Colonel Cadey’s infamous Liberty Brigade and the old warhawk had led them a wild chase, fighting to the last man despite Cutler’s entreaties that the war was already over. It was a shabby epitaph to a shabby war. Cadey had been a courageous foe and
hunting him down like a mad dog had left Cutler feeling dispirited and dishonoured. More importantly it had left the 19th battered, exhausted and lost in the middle of nowhere with the Big Freeze bearing down on them. Hoping to outrun the winter they had marched south, but the snow had caught up within days, tormenting them like Cadey’s vengeful spirit. When men began to die, Cutler had scattered the Sentinels into the wilderness to scout for shelter. He hadn’t held out much hope, but two days later Muse in Iron had called in a discovery.
‘Major, I’ve gone and found you a town,’ Lieutenant Nevin ‘Kiljak’ Jaxon had voxed, his smugness loud and clear through the distortion. ‘It’s not much to look at, but this far north… Well, I’d say it’s a miracle it’s here at all.’
Cutler hadn’t argued. Taking a squad of volunteers, he had forged ahead to reconnoitre the town while the regiment trailed behind with the wounded, but hope had soon turned to bitter disappointment. Their sanctuary was a ghost town. His hails had gone unanswered and the creaking timber houses they’d checked out had proven stone cold and empty. They’d found no victuals or anything else of use either.
What they had found was a bizarre, almost clinical mayhem: garments shredded to thin strips and furniture smashed to matchwood, even utensils bent out of shape. No object had escaped intact. Strangest of all, the detritus had been arranged into neat, geometrically perfect piles, forming shapes and structures that seemed redolent with meaning yet at the same time totally senseless. The junk sculptures had lured the eye and reeled in the mind with the need to understand. Even the memory of those deranged symbols made Cutler’s head pound. And then there were the pervasive messages scrawled across the walls of every hovel, sometimes painted, sometimes carved, but always the same:
‘THE BELL TOLLS, THE WORLD UNFOLDS’
‘These hicks sure must’ve loved this damn bell of theirs,’ Captain Waite had observed gruffly, but Cutler had wondered. Was it love or something darker that had inspired such devotion?
As they pushed on towards the square, his thoughts kept returning to that enigmatic bell, chewing over the mystery with growing disquiet. And then he heard it. A discordant note rumbling under the wind, so deep it was almost subliminal.
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