Third Reflection
‘The trail ends at a city named Zakhalin, Master Rathana,’ Brother Anselm told me. ‘It is among the most inflamed of this world’s cankers.’
We were alone in the ship’s obsidian-tiled strategium, for I required no others to advise me on our course.
‘The disorder will mask our arrival,’ I replied, studying the flickering holo-scan of the city that floated above the tactical pedestal between us. ‘I trust you do not expect me to scour the entire hovel, Brother-Redactor?’
‘I do not.’ Anselm ran a long-fingered hand over the holo, manipulating it with the fluidity he had once applied to a laserwire harp. Truthfully, I still struggled to muster sufficient contempt for the sublime compositions he used to weave, though I know harmony is a false salve.
‘The mirror is almost certainly here, master,’ Anselm said, plucking a building into prominence. ‘They call it the Concupiscent Hearth.’
‘A carnal name,’ I judged, but it wasn’t the name that troubled me. I glared at the holo of the grandiose mansion, trying to identify my disquiet.
‘The name befits its mistress,’ Anselm continued. ‘Even by the standards of this world’s degenerate overseers, the reputation of the Konteza Esseker is wanton and cruel.’ He frowned, deepening the seams of his sensitive face. Like many of our veterans, he had aged strikingly since the Great Excruciation, his long, once sable hair now entirely white. ‘The reports I accessed are obscene.’
‘You will cleanse yourself while I am gone, brother. The Seven Flagellations Incinerant shall suffice.’
‘Forgive my impertinence, Master Rathana,’ Anselm said, bowing his head, ‘but I had hoped to accompany you on this purgation. I have long dreamt of redacting Athanazius’ greatest blasphemy.’
I hesitated. Anselm’s wisdom was too valuable to hazard, yet he had earned the right to see this through. Besides, what possible peril could the nest of a debased noblewoman pose?
‘Very well, Brother-Redactor,’ I decided, ‘we shall prosecute His will together once more.’
It was many hours later, as our transport gunship descended to the city, that I finally realised what had troubled me about the mansion. Among the sprawl of burning buildings, the konteza’s eyrie had appeared perfectly untouched.
Our Thunderhawk set us down atop a hab tower several blocks from our destination then roared back into the blizzard weeping through the cracked dome high above. I had chosen the deployment site to avoid drawing attention, but in the face of that churning white squall I suspected it was a needless precaution. My helm’s sensors indicated the temperature was below freezing in the wind-wracked heights and I doubted it would be much warmer in the streets below, despite the fires raging throughout the city. The cold posed no threat to us, of course – even without our armour’s thermo-regulators we could easily weather it – but Zakhalin’s inhabitants would likely be compelled to seek shelter.
I recited the Canticle of Inception as my squad scanned the flat rooftop for heat signatures, but we were alone.
‘They have brought ruin upon themselves,’ Anselm observed over the vox, for the gale was too fierce for unassisted speech to carry beyond a few paces.
‘As within so without, brother,’ I replied, gazing down upon the fires shimmering through the blizzard. ‘These degenerates were damned long before this cataclysm.’
‘The Emperor condemns!’ Brother-Sergeant Salvatore declared. A veteran of many redactions, he never forsook an opportunity to voice the First Psalm. Like all our Thornguard elite, his helmet was painted brown and crested with rusty spikes to mark his piety. A ragged tabard hung from his belt, woven with dried thistles and shards of bone, for our brotherhood forbids fanciful icons of faith. The Ecclesiarchy’s proclivity for garish ornamentation mocks the holy war we wage, as does the leniency of its doctrine.
‘The Emperor condemns!’ we chorused reverently, though Veland held his tongue. It is a sin to abstain from responding to the First Psalm; however the prohibition of silence upon the young warrior was a graver ordinance. He would still be punished for the omission once the mission was over, but I would be merciful.
‘How did the mirror come to be here?’ Brother Laurent, the fifth and final member of the squad wondered aloud.
‘By the Archenemy’s wiles, boy!’ Salvatore growled, his flamer’s tongue lashing about in the wind. ‘Why ask such things?’
‘I stand corrected, brother-sergeant.’ Despite his assent I suspected his curiosity was unappeased, but I tolerated such infractions in Laurent Toledos, for he was another young Thornblood with promise. Though he didn’t possess Veland’s martial flair, there was an earnest intuitiveness about him that leaned towards a subtler path, perhaps as a Redactor like Anselm. Such recruits are rare, for inquisitive souls are seldom pure enough to survive the Trial of Thorns, hence Laurent was worthy of cultivation.
Had I known what lay ahead I would not have chosen him for this mission, nor Veland or Anselm for that matter. The Concupiscent Hearth was no place for complex souls.
We crossed the city without serious incident. Our kind are not naturally built for stealth, nor does our creed encourage it, but the blizzard served as a partial cloak, surrendering to our helmets’ sensors but blinding the scum who wandered the streets. Despite the cold there were many about, mostly in small groups, but occasionally in great mobs. Some were intent on destruction, others on escape from their fellows’ madness. Most who stumbled upon us fled, shrieking that the Imperium’s vengeance was upon them, or fell to their knees and begged for succour. All these we ignored, our consciences salved by the certainty of their doom, but some attacked us with makeshift weapons or autoguns. These fanatics’ foreheads bore the blue circle of their imagined liberators and they fought with a measure of courage, if not skill. We purged them swiftly and without passion, for such vermin were unworthy of zeal.
More of Zakhalin’s phantoms haunted the gateway leading to the konteza’s estate, but they slunk away at our approach. The high marble wall surrounding the grounds had been defaced with paint, lewd symbols and phrases vying for attention with the hateful circle of the xenos-lovers. The iron gates had been battered down, yet I saw no bullet holes or scorch marks, let alone the bodies that typically attended such violence.
‘The gates were undefended,’ Anselm mused, echoing my thoughts. ‘There was no battle fought here.’
‘Doubtless their wardens fled,’ Salvatore said, stomping over the twisted iron wreckage to enter the grounds. ‘Only cowards would let such scum bring down their world.’
As the rest of us followed, a bundle of rags shivered beside the wall and a hand reached out to clutch at Brother Laurent’s armoured shins. He spun and brought his bolter to bear on the figure slouched under the gateway. It was a crone, her form wasted to a minimalist caricature of humanity.
‘You have come… angel,’ the woman hissed, her heavily accented rasp somehow carrying through the wind. Her heat signature was so faint I marvelled she still lived, yet her eyes glittered in the gloom. ‘I… saw you. Dreamt of you.’
Laurent offered no answer. Though his expression was hidden by his helm I sensed his uncertainty. Some day soon that hesitation would either sharpen into astuteness or prove his downfall.
‘She took my sons,’ the crone continued, her voice trembling with passion. ‘Took so many others too… Burn the bitch!’
I was intrigued to watch the scene play out, but our comrades had already disappeared into the blizzard.
‘Brother Laurent, with me!’ I ordered.
As I marched after the others I heard him say something to the woman, but the squall snatched away his words. Now, after all that came after, I find myself wondering what he said.
Yes, mirror-brother, such things matter! We are the progeny of the choices we make and I believe Laurent made a choice at those gates, even if it came to nothing.
Be silent! Let me finish. I must order my thoughts if we are to end this.
Fourth Reflection
Like the gates, the konteza’s garden bore no traces of conflict. It was a flat, circular expanse covered in many-hued tiles that hinted at some overarching pattern I could not discern; however there was no mistaking the depravity of the statues that adorned it. They were dotted about the place seemingly at random, their strangely distended forms contorted into sinuous studies of carnality. The pink marble they were hewn from was aglow with an ardour their featureless faces couldn’t express.
‘Are they dancing?’ Laurent asked as we passed an improbably conjoined pair.
‘In a manner, brother,’ Anselm answered solemnly.
‘Do not look upon them,’ I commanded, though my own eyes strayed to each tableau we passed. Despite their prurience I could not deny the excellence of their execution. Their creator had evidently been a sculptor of rare genius, almost the equal of my own. I vowed we would destroy them once our primary duty was accomplished, for it would be remiss to leave such magnificent obscenities standing.
The konteza’s chateau emerged slowly from the blizzard, rising from the estate’s centre in a riotous congeries of fluted pillars and faux towers clad in the same roseate marble as the statuary it presided over. Bulbous, vividly enamelled domes topped each wing, vying with one another for attention like the painted harlots who preyed upon mortals. The holo had failed to capture the building’s sheer decadence, but it was certainly a fitting receptacle for Athanazius’ heresy.
‘It is… extraordinary…’ Anselm trailed off before he said too much. Some among us have never fully cast off the tyranny of beauty, but we must never give it voice. I would castigate him for the lapse later.
‘We should burn this abomination in our wake,’ Salvatore declared piously.
‘We shall raze it to rubble, brother-sergeant,’ I promised. ‘Even if it requires an orbital barrage.’
The mansion’s wing-shaped doors were wide open, their ornately carved woodwork showing no sign of having been forced. We approached them cautiously, our weapons readied in expectation of a trap, but the brightly lit hall beyond appeared deserted.
‘Brother Veland, take the spearhead,’ I commanded. The choice would irk Salvatore, but the volatile Thornblood was the most expendable among us.
Nobody sprang from hiding as Veland entered, but I waited until he reached the centre of the immense hall before signalling the others to follow. We fanned out into our pre-designated quadrants behind our spearhead, swiftly scouring the space for enemies. The room was as lavishly furnished as the building’s exterior promised, but many of its ornaments had been smashed and the floor was scuffed with dirty tracks. The xenos symbol was sprayed profligately across the walls in blue paint.
‘Others have trespassed here before us,’ Anselm gauged, studying the trail, ‘but not many.’
‘Surely it matters not,’ Salvatore said. ‘Either way they are nothing.’
‘Yet it is strange,’ the Redactor pressed. ‘This edifice of privilege should have drawn the rabble’s fury.’
‘They were afraid,’ Laurent ventured, running a gauntleted hand over a velvet-papered wall, as if testing it.
‘Perhaps,’ Anselm acknowledged. ‘If even half the tales of the konteza are true, they had cause to be.’
I considered our options. Several doorways led off from the hall, promising a sprawl of corridors and chambers spanning several floors. It might take hours, perhaps even days to locate the mirror if its mistress had concealed it.
‘We will pursue the intruders first,’ I decided. ‘They may know something of use… Laurent, take the spearhead!’
‘By your command, Chaplain Castigant.’
I noticed Veland had stopped at the foot of the grand staircase at the chamber’s far end, his head tilted to one side, as if listening for something.
‘Veland, do you have a contact?’ I demanded. There was no answer. ‘Brother Veland, do–’
He sent a negative, using the tongue clicks of the Muted. All our brethren are required to learn the code, for the prohibition of speech must never be broken, even in extreme peril.
My gaze lingered on Veland as he turned away from the stairs to follow the others. I could not say what troubled me, but revisiting that moment with hindsight, I believe it was the first time he heard the witch’s voice.
We followed the intruders deeper into the chateau. Even after their boots had been scrubbed clean by the fulsome carpets their tracks were easy to follow, for their passage was marked by a trail of destruction, though they always left the lights intact, as if fearful of the dark. Beyond this crude ruination there was a more subtle blight upon the palatial maze. Everything was dusted with ice and my sensors indicated a temperature well below freezing, though the windows were unbroken. Indeed, it was colder within the building than without.
‘Is there no end to the depravity here?’ Salvatore snarled, glaring at the paintings lining the walls of yet another wood-panelled corridor. The canvases had been slashed, but their salacious subjects remained apparent.
‘She doesn’t believe in limits,’ Laurent murmured.
‘I don’t follow you, Thornblood,’ Salvatore said.
‘I…’ The young warrior faltered, as though he hadn’t meant to speak the thought aloud. ‘Forgive me, brother-sergeant, it was a stray notion.’
‘This is not the place for them, boy.’
The veteran was correct. More than any other battleground I had walked upon, the Concupiscent Hearth demanded absolute focus. Yes, my mirror-brother, I recognised it as an arena from the moment we entered, even if its trials were not of muscle and sinew. But if I still harboured any doubts that something unclean haunted the konteza’s eyrie they were banished when we finally caught up with the intruders.
‘What madness is this?’ Salvatore hissed as we entered the grand dining hall where their trespass ended. Unlike the other rooms we’d passed through, it was sparsely lit and steeped in shadows, as if to convey an intimate mood, but we saw our quarry clearly enough.
There were eleven of them, sitting stiffly on high-backed chairs at a round, linen-draped table. A sumptuous repast was set before them, as though in celebration, but the roasted meats and elaborately presented vegetables were rimed with frost, along with the prospective diners. They were naked, their clothes left in neatly folded piles by the door, along with their weapons. The cold had turned their flesh blue and preserved the pain in their staring eyes, yet their faces wore wide grins. Their left arms were raised, locked in a perpetual toast, the wine in their goblets turned to crimson ice.
Murmuring a prayer of chastisement, I walked along the dead, looking for wounds, but saw nothing except the cold’s kiss. I imagined them undressing and taking their places decorously, then waiting in silence while their blood chilled.
‘How long?’ I asked Anselm, who was the closest to an Apothecary among us.
‘It is difficult to say, master,’ he replied, approaching a bearded brute with concentric circles tattooed across his face. He snapped the corpse’s arm off at the elbow and inspected the limb’s core. ‘Frozen through… But a few hours would suffice for that, after which there would be little change. This could have occurred days ago, perhaps even weeks.’
‘A decadent way to die,’ Salvatore declared, swiping the head from the cadaver beside him. It shattered at his feet in crimson shards.
‘I doubt they chose it, brother-sergeant,’ Anselm said. ‘It would have been an agonising fate.’ He placed the severed arm on the table gently. ‘Something dulled their wits and lulled them into death. Perhaps the wine was poisoned.’
‘Not the wine,’ I judged. ‘This was sorcery, brother.’
‘She watched them die,’ Laurent said, his voice tight with loathing. ‘It amused her.’ He pointed at a large, gold-framed painting overlooki
ng the head of the table. ‘It’s in her eyes.’
‘Thornblood, I have warned you against such.’ I silenced Salvatore’s reprimand with a raised hand. I had chosen Laurent for his Emperor-given instincts and it would be folly to ignore them in this nest of serpents. Before the Great Excruciation I suspect he might have found a place among our Librarium’s heretics, but properly wielded, his latent gift might become a righteous weapon.
‘Corruption slinks beneath the skin of the world, brother-sergeant,’ I said, striding to join Laurent beneath the painting. ‘Sometimes we must hound it with our souls, not our wits.’
The lighting was contrived to fall upon the picture gracefully, emphasising its prominence without washing out its hues. A woman in a black dress returned my gaze from the canvas, her hands folded possessively over the heavy tome in her lap. A mane of red hair framed the pale oval of her face, cascading to her waist and woven with black flowers. Her green eyes were sharp with icy disdain, though her expression was wistful, brooding even. I had never seen her before, yet I knew her immediately – Konteza Urzelka Esseker, the mistress of the Concupiscent Hearth.
Unlike most bloodlines of the Adeptus Astartes, those of my lineage can recognise comeliness in a woman, hence I saw the beauty in that painted visage, but I also recognised it for a mask. The calculation in the matriarch’s eyes pierced the deception, making a mockery of her studied pensiveness. I was quite certain that hesitation was alien to the spirit behind that exquisite face. This was a woman who did as she willed, no matter the cost.
What do you think she saw when she gazed into Athanazius’ glass, brother? I have no doubt she indulged the impulse obsessively, even if she disliked the truths it revealed. Perhaps that is what drove her to heresy.
As we left the room I noticed Veland lingering under the portrait, his head once again tilted to the side. There was a perceptible sway to his posture.
‘Brother Veland!’ I shouted from the doorway, my patience with his laxity wearing thin. His helm’s lenses locked on me impassively, the white cross of the Muted daubed across his faceplate stark in the gloom. For a moment I thought he would speak, but he merely clicked an affirmative. Somehow it sounded insolent.
Inferno Volume 2 - Guy Haley Page 4
