‘I will find the arbitrator in command and make it so,’ Sharr said. ‘In the meantime we must conceive of a means to turn the tide. If we cannot flush out the last of the Night Lords scum soon we will have to depart with what little we have taken here. My company has lost too many void brothers to do that.’
‘Our only hope for ending this engagement swiftly is to strike off the traitor’s head,’ Te Kahurangi said. ‘We must seize the Precinct Fortress. That is where they are seeking to bind the boy with their daemonic master. I can feel his power intruding into the mortal plane. The shadows grow deeper, Sharr.’
‘We cannot teleport into the fortress as long as the void shield remains active,’ Sharr pointed out. ‘And to reach that we must fight our way through the last of the tunnels.’
‘It may be simpler than that,’ Te Kahurangi said. ‘But the traitors must provide me with something specific first.’
‘They have halted their advance,’ Shadraith said to Cull. ‘They are fortifying the junctions west of us, on multiple levels.’
Cull had returned to the Precinct Fortress and its Centrum Dominus. He was pointedly ignoring Shadraith’s prisoner. The boy reminded Cull too much of how he’d come to be inducted into the VIII Legion. Shadraith had been force-feeding the captive triglyceride gel – a concoction of ultra-proteins, rapid-acting carbohydrates and fats – to give his pale, scrawny body some strength. If he died before the binding ritual was complete all the sorcerer’s work would be in vain. The thought made Cull smile.
‘We have stung them,’ the Prince of Thorns said, turning his back on Shadraith and the boy in order to scan the viewscreens still functioning in the darkness of the Centrum Dominus. First Kill stood around, idle, dire shapes in the deep shadows.
‘They must make their final play soon,’ Golgoth grumbled. The hulking raptor was flexing his bloody lightning claws impatiently, eying the prisoner.
‘They will,’ Xeron and Terron said in unison. Cull shot them a glance. The Dark Twins had started conversing with an increasingly disturbing level of precision. Membership of First Kill was only possible after a series of purity tests were passed, but corruption of the mind was more difficult to trace than mutation of the body. If something warp-spawned was taking root in the souls of the two Night Lords Cull would kill them himself.
‘I want their champion’s head,’ Narx the executioner said, offering Cull a brief bow. ‘For the glory of my prince, of course.’
‘You will have it,’ Cull said idly, still looking at Xeron and Terron. The twins shifted beneath his gaze, their skull helms averted.
‘The explosives broke them,’ Drac said. Alone among First Kill, the jaded demolitions master seemed at ease. He crouched in the darkness, apparently content to wait for his prince’s next orders.
‘You did your work well,’ Cull allowed. ‘The strikes conducted under the cover of the prisoner release have evened the odds. The Imperials grew overconfident, and we have punished them for it.’
‘And now they must choose,’ Drac added. ‘We have flooded their lines with fleeing prisoners. If they wish to hold them, they must cease their advance. If they wish to press on to us here, they cannot afford to bring them all. They won’t dare split their remaining forces.’
‘We have them outnumbered,’ Cull said. ‘The remains of the Black Hand cult squads will pin them in place while the Claws work their way round to the north and south. They cannot hope to cover all the levels. Once we have cut them off from their sub-precinct, we will slaughter them.’
‘It won’t be that simple,’ Shadraith said from behind Cull. The Prince of Thorns grimaced as the sorcerer continued.
‘The Pale Nomad still sees much. I can blind him as he sought to blind me, but he may yet anticipate our movements.’
‘He is too much for you, Flayed Father,’ Cull surmised, turning back towards Shadraith. He saw the Night Lord’s grip on his warp scythe tighten.
‘He is one of the oldest corpse servants I have ever encountered.’
‘You have encountered?’ Cull asked. ‘Or that Bar’ghul has encountered? Does your daemon guide you still?’
‘How I know of the corpse worshipper is not your concern,’ Shadraith snapped back. ‘He is nothing compared to one as blessed as I.’
‘If what your daemon says is true his age may match your own, Flayed Father,’ Cull said, giving the moniker a mocking inflection. He knew exactly how much it infuriated Shadraith whenever he questioned the truth behind the sorcerer’s claims to have been fighting the Long War since the days of the Heresy.
‘I walked beside men who have since become gods,’ the sorcerer spat. ‘I remember our Legion’s degenerate home world, and the night we put it to the torch. I met the gene-sire you dare to claim descent from. I have his gift of foresight. You would do well to remember all that before you question my abilities. I will tear that Loyalist pretender limb from limb.’
‘How?’ Cull demanded, abandoning his barbed taunting. ‘He is in the midst of his grey brethren.’
‘I will give him reason not to be,’ Shadraith said. ‘There are many secret tunnels beneath this fortress, some known, others less so. My shadows have sought them out. I will plant the knowledge of one of the tunnel’s existence in the mind of the human spared on board the prison ship, and she will take word of it to her masters. They have to be seeking to end this fight soon. They think of themselves as predators, but a predator can always be trapped. I will lace the water with blood, and when they come for us we will welcome them to Bar’ghul’s birthing ceremony. The essence of the Pale Nomad will be my final offering.’
Rannik woke. Her autopistol was up and aimed in an instant, braced in both hands. Her body was trembling and slick with sweat.
The sudden motion tripped the sleeping cell’s auto lumen. The darkness vanished. The room was empty. Outside, beyond the tiny vision slit, it was still night. The chrono display built into the far wall told her it was early. Or late.
She lowered the pistol and took a long, slow breath. She was still shaking. Memories of what had woken her intruded on her mind, like razors sliding into flesh – screaming skulls, nightmares of sharpened steel dropping from above, burning red eyes. Pale skin and scarred grey battle armour. Not just those, she now recalled. Something more. A narrow, dark corridor, more a natural fissure than a man-made burrow, pressing in against her.
Suddenly the memories came back, thrust as though by some violent hand into the forefront of her thoughts. Under-route 1, the so-called Sally Port. How had she forgotten about its existence until now? It could be vital. They could bypass the last of the works around Sink Shaft One and strike directly up into the Precinct Fortress’ vaults.
She swung her feet out of the bunk and onto the cold, bare rockcrete floor, fighting off her exhaustion. She’d slept for too long anyway. Since the Space Marines had arrived and left their heavy armour to help fortify the sub-precinct she’d felt abandoned in a strange sort of limbo. It wasn’t her fight any more; the towering god-warriors had made that much clear. Since they had set foot on Zartak, Rannik had been relegated to her former role – a subordinate caretaker of the planet’s prison population, not the commander of the last armed forces resisting a powerful Archenemy invasion.
A part of her was relieved by that, and that relief had manifested in the sleep from which the nightmares had arisen, unbidden. Another part of her was disgusted by her own weakness. She had been spared by the Adeptus Astartes, just as she’d been spared by their nightmarish reflection on the bridge of the Imperial Truth. Shame and fear twisted in her gut and made her face burn. Why had that monster not killed her, like it had killed Macran and the others? Had it done something to her in between knocking her unconscious and jettisoning her in the salvation pod? Was she carrying some sort of taint or corruption? Surely the Space Marines would have sensed it when they’d arrived? The thought made her shudder.
Her vox-torq, lying on the kitbag beside the commandeered cot, clicked. Rannik dragged it around her neck and activated it.
‘Go ahead,’ she said.
‘Sir,’ crackled Jaken’s voice. ‘The Space Marines are back. They wish to see you immediately.’ The words sent a fresh pulse of fear through the sub-warden, but when she spoke her voice sounded curiously calm and detached.
‘I’m already up,’ she said, pulling her bodyglove from the kit bag. ‘Tell them I will be in the command room presently.’
She dressed quickly, clipping on her battered carapace. She tried not to think about the blood crusting over the black plates. She’d not had time to wash it. She’d been too busy attending the deployment of the Space Marines and the dispositions of her own men. The Angels of Death had pointedly ignored her. Once she’d delegated command of the sub-precinct to Jaken for the night she’d wolfed down a plastek tray’s worth of nutrient paste and a fibre bar, and then simply passed out on Klenn’s old cot.
Until the terrors had woken her. And the memories. Under-route 1, the key to the Precinct Fortress.
She forced herself to hurry down to Sub-Precinct Eight’s command room. It was too late now for hesitation. That was the thought that had been carrying her through the madness of the previous few long Zartakian days and nights, and she wasn’t going to give up on it now. Just keep going. She punched the code into the command room’s door panel and stepped inside.
The first two gods to have arrived on Zartak were waiting. The one in blue armour, inscribed with swirling white patterns and clutching a stone-tipped bone staff, nodded to her as she hastily made the sign of the aquila. The second, taller, with a vicious fin crest sweeping up from the top of his helm, did not react at all. Both their armour, and the huge two-handed chainaxe carried lightly by the second warrior, were visibly splattered with dried blood. Parts of their battleplate gleamed silver where they had taken the blows of blades and bolt-rounds. Despite the obvious hardships they had endured while Rannik had slept, the upright posture of both warriors betrayed no signs of weariness or injury.
Neither of the giants spoke. Rannik cleared her throat.
‘Lords,’ she said, ‘you honour me once more with your presence. I was about to contact you.’
‘Contact us?’ the grey-clad one asked, the voice inflected just enough to turn the statement into a question.
‘I have intelligence I believe may be of use to the Imperial cause,’ Rannik said. ‘If you wish to mount an assault against the heretics in the fastness of the Precinct Fortress, there is a tunnel I know of which will allow you to pass beneath the nearer mine workings and emerge into the vaults.’
The two god-warriors exchanged a lingering look, their expressions unreadable behind their grim helms. Eventually the grey one spoke again.
‘Why do you only just speak of this now, arbitrator?’
Rannik found herself lost for words. Her stomach was in knots of acidic terror, and she couldn’t stop a trembling tick in her left thigh. The blue-clad Space Marine glanced once more at his brother and, almost imperceptibly, shook his head.
‘We are here to make a requisition,’ the giant said, ignoring his own unanswered question. ‘From your facilities.’
‘What manner of requisition, lord?’ Rannik asked, giving silent thanks to Him on Earth that they had not pressed her as to why she hadn’t told them of the Sally Port tunnel sooner. She had no good explanation as to why something so potentially vital had slipped from her thoughts until now.
‘Flesh,’ the grey warrior said, the word lingering darkly in the close air of the control room. ‘We require your prisoners.’
It took a moment to process the words. What amazed her even more than the request was the fact that she found herself denying it.
‘Impossible, lord,’ she said, her voice still serenely controlled. ‘It is my sacred task as an arbitrator and as the commander of this facility to ensure my charges remain fully incarcerated at all times. Any change to the status of a prisoner or group of prisoners can only be made under warden review, during set bimonthly cycles.’
The words had rolled automatically off her tongue, straight from her progenium training slates. Even as she finished speaking she felt a fresh upsurge of fear. Had she really dared deny these titans?
For a moment, neither of the Space Marines reacted. Then the grey one spoke again. His voice had taken on an even harder edge.
‘We do not require them all, only those very few who would be of any use to us in combating the murderers, traitors and heretics which you have allowed to seize this world.’
‘The number is irrelevant,’ Rannik said, sticking to the passages she had spent most of her life learning. ‘Due process is still required, even for a single prisoner. I do not have the authority to grant your request. I can only file it under recommendation.’
The blue-armoured Space Marine moved towards her. It was neither sudden nor violent, so Rannik’s first instinct was not to flinch away. Instead she simply stood and stared, like prey caught in the merciless death-glare of a hulking predator. The Space Marine reached out with one hand, and, slowly, placed two digits against Rannik’s forehead.
Nothing happened. The giant removed his fingers. Rannik couldn’t recall why they’d been there, but she supposed it wasn’t important.
‘The prisoners,’ the grey one demanded. Rannik nodded.
‘Yes, lord. They are at your disposal. I will initiate the release protocols immediately.’
Jaken, who’d been watching the whole exchange, looked from the Adeptus Astartes to Rannik, and back again, but said nothing. The grey giant nodded.
‘Be swift about it. We will need your directives if we are to find this tunnel you speak of.’
‘Of course, my lord.’
‘How many?’ Sharr asked.
‘Maybe a hundred we can trust enough to arm,’ Te Kahurangi said, eyes sweeping from one end of the corridor to the other. They had descended once more into the prison blocks beneath Sub-Precinct Eight. The cells around were silent, as though the prisoners were collectively holding their breaths.
‘For the most part, those with the strength and willpower to overcome their terror are also the ones least likely to submit to our authority,’ Te Kahurangi continued. ‘And we cannot risk giving weapons to any who might turn on us or throw in their lot with the other prisoners and attempt some sort of escape.’
‘You can guarantee the loyalty of the ones you choose?’ Sharr asked.
‘The vast majority, yes. A hundred or so prisoners will be enough to render us some assistance without too great a danger of them turning on us.’
Te Kahurangi had spent the last hour probing the minds of the prisoners held beneath Sub-Precinct Eight, teasing out their thoughts and weaving them together into something he was able to study. Unsurprisingly, the strongest emotions reverberating through the immaterium from the cells around the Carcharodons were fear, unease and mental exhaustion. Even confined to the prison, the inmates could not have missed the psychic blanket of despair that had heralded the arrival of the Night Lords. The sight of the Carcharodons only served to heighten their terror.
Beneath the more obvious pall of distress was a deep, chill undercurrent of fatigue and hatred. Te Kahurangi swam among this stinging morass of feelings, assessing the contributions of individuals to the wider flow. He sought out those whose thoughts could lend themselves to the Carcharodons’ objectives, those whose minds betrayed hints of stoic determination, courage or, rarest of all, hope. Those were the ones he would choose.
‘There’s more,’ Te Kahurangi said.
‘More?’ Sharr echoed.
‘I did not merely place the suggestion of releasing the prisoners in the arbitrator’s mind when I touched her,’ Te Kahurangi said. ‘I was also seeking the presence of the Dead Skin. He was there, nestled deep within her thought
s. The human’s mind is weak and malleable.’
‘So it is as you predicted?’ Sharr said. ‘The sorcerer is trying to lure us into a trap. We should proceed as you have suggested?’
‘Of course,’ Te Kahurangi said. ‘We are all here on Zartak for the same thing. Fresh meat for the Chapter, and the psychic potential of the boy.’
‘I have assigned you a volunteer from every squad for your strike force. I have not told them the full nature of what is to come, but they know how it will end.’
‘Their sacrifices will be honoured.’
‘Company Master Akia would not have approved of this strategy,’ Sharr said slowly. Te Kahurangi nodded.
‘You are right. In his later years, Akia would have simply resumed the frontal assault and tried to take the Precinct Fortress by force.’
‘You are fortunate, then, that I am not Akia,’ Sharr said. ‘I will order the arbitrator to open her armoury to the conscripts you’ve selected, then I will have her lead you into the tunnels she has been shown by the sorcerer. May the Void Father be with you, Te Kahurangi.’
‘And with you, Bail Sharr.’
Ninety-eight former prisoners left Sub-Precinct Eight under the watchful eyes of Second Squad. They had been taken from their cells by Rannik’s heavy-handed arbitrator garrison, and assembled before Te Kahurangi. If the terrifying sight of the huge transhuman psyker wasn’t enough to ensure their loyalty, the Chief Librarian had left them in no doubt as to the seriousness of their situation. He thrust images of the butchery committed by the invaders into their minds, and then opened them to the radiant hope that came with the Carcharodons’ offer of victory and salvation. Lastly he made it clear what fate would befall any prisoners who tried to escape, dredging up horrors from their deepest nightmares – phantoms of claws and the fangs of the beasts that prowled Zartak’s death jungles. Any who escaped would be hunted, and their deaths would not be clean.
Carcharodons: Red Tithe Page 21