Grey Knights: Sons of Titan

by David Annandale

  She replaced the texts and looked around the room. She asked herself why such a tiny librarium should exist. What purpose could it serve? She could imagine the space being used for specialised research, but the material here was too basic. She would have been more surprised by its absence aboard the vessel of an Ordo Xenos inquisitor. The room made no sense.

  Unless the material here was overflow. Unless the principle librarium was full of far more dangerous works.

  She left the room and continued walking. At the far end of the corridor, just before the intersection that would bring her to stairs leading to the next level down, was one of the sealed doors. Two of Orbiana’s guards stood outside it. They stared straight ahead as Furia stopped between them. She looked at the door’s sigils. They were tools that were more properly the domain of the Ordo Malleus, though they were used often enough throughout all branches of the Inquisition. They were not proof of anything. They were barely suggestive.

  Furia approached the door. The guards tensed. Still they did not look at her directly. They did not bring up their lasrifles. ‘You have orders to let no one in,’ she said.

  The one on the left nodded. ‘Yes, inquisitor.’

  ‘And if I try to enter, I will leave you with no choice.’

  The woman nodded again. ‘Yes, inquisitor.’

  ‘You understand that you have no hope of stopping me.’

  ‘We do, inquisitor.’

  She wasn’t threatening them. In a sense, they were threatening her, with the complication of their own deaths. They didn’t have to worry. She had no intention of trying to force her way through a door with that many wards on it. Whatever was on the other side would only be aided by any disruption she created.

  She said nothing more to the guards. She turned away, took a right at the intersection, and then the stairs to the level below. If she kept going down, and to starboard, she would reach the landing bay. She headed towards the bow instead, going down another long corridor. It was similar to the one above. The tapestries here were, if anything, even more single-minded. The orks were the subjects of all of them, turning the walls into snarls of aggression.

  More doors with sigils and guards. Furia could disable the guards without killing them if she chose. Even that step would be politically fraught. She held back from taking that step for the time being. If she found nothing, she would rethink her options.

  One of the few open doors she passed revealed another small librarium. She stepped inside. It was much the same as the one above. The works here were older, and a bit more speculative. There was more marginalia, and though both hands were still present, one predominated here.

  There was an iron lectern in the centre of the room, illuminated by a single, crystal-encased glowglobe that hung from the ceiling. A data-slate sat on it. Furia flipped through its files. She found notes and symbols, equations and formulae. Little that made sense. More about the orks, though. More and more information and theories about the orks, though most of it so abbreviated as to be incomprehensible. Many questions, too, just as indecipherable. She was looking at the dialogue of one. Only the owner of the slate could understand it.

  And the owner had forgotten it.

  She replaced the slate on the lectern, then walked to the rear of the chamber, where the lighting was dim. From the main corridor, she would be hard to spot. She slowed her breathing, becoming perfectly still. She waited.

  Perhaps an hour passed. Then an elderly man entered the librarium. He was a dishevelled, tired, distracted-looking specimen. Moving in a rushed shuffle, he zeroed in on the lectern. He made a small exclamation of relief when he saw the data-slate. He seized it and slipped it into a pocket of his robe.

  ‘Missing vital findings?’ Furia asked.

  The sage jumped. He whirled around, his right hand holding the lectern for support, his left clutching at his chest.

  ‘I apologise,’ Furia said, stepping forward. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’ She was very conscious of the effect her appearance had on most civilians whose path she crossed. She opened this encounter with a quick alternation of fear and an innocuous greeting. She wanted to see which approach the man responded to, which would get him talking most easily. ‘I am Inquisitor Hadrianna Furia.’

  The sage bowed his head. ‘Ertuo Andoval,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise we had guests.’ He nodded again. ‘Always honoured to meet one of Inquisitor Orbiana’s colleagues. How generous of you to help. The more the better, at this juncture.’

  Interesting. Whatever his task, it rendered him oblivious to other events on the Scouring Light. His false assumptions were going to make life easier for her. She decided to remain friendly. ‘Precisely,’ she said. She gestured at the lectern. ‘Were you stymied without your slate?’

  ‘What? Oh.’ He shook his head. ‘Not at all, not at all. A bit. Shouldn’t have mattered.’ He gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Silly distractions of an old man, you see. Nothing very important on it now, just some prompts and questions for myself. But I didn’t know where it was, and then that was all I could think about…’ He stopped. He frowned, anxious. ‘Oh dear. Inquisitor Orbiana won’t like to hear that.’

  ‘She won’t hear it from me.’

  ‘Oh thank you, thank you. I wouldn’t want her to think that I’ve been derelict. Of course, there are limits to what can be done until her return. But we have high hopes that we’re on the right track this time. Don’t you?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Right track for what? she wondered. She examined Andoval’s clothing, noting its stains. There was a chemical odour that wafted from him too. And beneath it was something else, harder to define. It was related to decay. She didn’t think it came from him, but from the materials of his work. ‘Can I help?’ she offered.

  ‘Very kind, very kind. No, I don’t think so, inquisitor. Not until they return from planetside.’

  ‘You have the space prepared for that return?’

  He blinked at her. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Furia cursed herself. She had overplayed her hand. Whatever Orbiana hoped to find on Squire’s Rest, it wasn’t large. It might be knowledge itself. ‘I meant that all is in readiness,’ she said.

  But Andoval was suspicious now. His frown returned. His lips moved silently. Furia realised that he was mouthing her name over and over. Then his brow cleared. He looked at her sharply. He started to back away. ‘I remember now. Oh no, no, no, this won’t do. Inquisitor Orbiana won’t be pleased with me. She has mentioned you before.’

  Furia followed him. She advanced one slow pace at a time. She didn’t want him to flee. But she also wanted him to understand what he was facing in her. ‘If you know who I am, then you know the ordo I represent, and the nature of my duty.’

  Andoval nodded, head bobbing up and down as if on a spring.

  ‘I am not here because of a personal animosity for Inquisitor Orbiana. I am here because of a threat to the Imperium. Those who do not aid me are aiding the Ruinous Powers, and so their lives are forfeit. Am I making myself clear?’

  The old man’s head kept bobbing. His feet kept shuffling backwards.

  ‘Then tell me what Orbiana seeks on Squire’s Rest.’

  Andoval stopped backing up just before he reached the doorway. He cleared his throat. His shoulders hunched in, as if he expected a blow. When he spoke, his voice quavered, but the bravery of his words belied the terror of his body. ‘I mean no disrespect, Inquisitor Furia. But your authority does not supersede that of Inquisitor Orbiana. You both have absolute dominion over the likes of me, but the two of you are peers. My duty in this situation is to the inquisitor in whose service I am sworn. Unless she tells me otherwise, I cannot do as you ask.’

  ‘Do you understand the risk you are taking?’ Furia asked him, her voice turning into a hiss of ice.

  He trembled, but he stood his ground. He said, ‘Yes, I do.’ Then
, pleading: ‘The work we are doing here is so important. Please let us finish. The benefit to the Imperium will be immense.’

  That was a dangerous delusion. Though the Xanthites had won battles that might have been lost if not for the methods they employed, Furia believed that they ran the risk of losing the greater war. She didn’t know what Orbiana was doing here, but if Squire’s Rest was key, and if Squire’s Rest was the location of the prognosticated incursion, then Orbiana’s project could have catastrophic results. Andoval appeared to be the key researcher. Furia wondered how much of a blow for salvation she would strike if she killed Andoval here and now. Would that be worth the consequences?

  And why was she so sure that Orbiana’s work was dangerous? She had no facts to go on. Only the general principle that her radicalism was toxic. With a struggle, she recalled herself to the mission. She had not come on the hunt for Orbiana. She was here because of Squire’s Rest. It was possible that Orbiana’s activities might exacerbate the danger of the incursion. But by the same token, open conflict in Inquisition ranks would serve daemonic interests admirably. If she acted rashly, she would be doing the work of the Archenemy.

  ‘Go,’ Furia told Andoval. ‘I will speak with Inquisitor Orbiana when she returns. Note this – I will not permit anyone to harm the Imperium. If I determine the action is necessary, I will not hesitate to order this vessel incinerated. Do you understand?’

  Andoval went back to bobbing his head. ‘Please don’t worry, inquisitor. If we succeed, you’ll see that–’

  A blaring tocsin cut him off. Furia pushed past him and into the corridors. She listened to the wail for a moment, then started running in the direction of the bridge. The hull of the Scouring Light resounded with the call to battle stations.

  The sounds of the war dropped away quickly as Gared and Styer walked deeper into the mausoleum. The walls shut out the signs of struggle beyond them. They preserved the final silence of their interior.

  A tomb was right, Gared thought. It was the sort of location where, given the correct rituals, the barrier to the empyrean could be thinned. Events were centring themselves around the Mehnert mausoleum. Logic and experience suggested that the Grey Knights had found the location of the incursion. They were on time. They could defeat the threat before it could establish a foothold in the materium.

  Only…

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Styer asked.

  ‘No, there isn’t.’

  ‘That is also my impression.’

  They were walking down a narrow corridor leading from the entrance of the tomb. The construction was monolithic rather than ornate. The exterior walls appeared to be many metres thick. The stones were cleanly hewn and unadorned. The atmosphere was stale, but not corrupt. As far as Gared could tell, the most defining characteristic of the mausoleum was that it was large.

  ‘What do you think?’ Styer asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He was torn between the fact of the prognostication, the logic of the site, and the psychic emptiness he now confronted. If he had just arrived here with no prior knowledge, it would never occur to him that anything daemonic was going to happen here.

  The corridor ended in a circular interment chamber. At the centre was the general’s sarcophagus. A figure in power armour stood before it, flanked by two warrior acolytes.

  ‘When I signalled my ship for assistance,’ Orbiana said, ‘I had no idea my crew would show such resourcefulness.’

  ‘Inquisitor,’ Styer said. ‘I must ask you what the significance of this tomb is for you.’

  ‘My energies are concentrated on the struggle against the orks. My researches pointed to the possibility that information valuable to that struggle could be found here.’

  ‘What sort of information?’

  ‘The affairs of the Ordo Xenos are not yours, justicar.’

  ‘Did you find it?’ Gared asked.

  ‘I think,’ Orbiana said, ignoring the question, ‘that our priority should be departure from this site.’

  Styer turned his head in Gared’s direction. ‘Brother-Epistolary?’ he asked.

  Gared gave a slight shake of his head. He was uncertain.

  Styer faced Orbiana again. ‘Your business here is concluded?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘We require some time here ourselves.’

  She made a slight bow in assent. ‘Of course. We will join the struggle.’ She marched out of the burial chamber, followed by the guards.

  ‘Well?’ Styer asked when they were gone.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gared said, frustrated. He circled the chamber, examining everything, learning its nature. The sarcophagus was marble, while the rest of the tomb was granite. A tribute, no doubt, to the dead man’s rank. A heroic representation of the general was carved in on the lid. He held a crown aloft with one hand, while his booted feet trampled a massive ork chieftain. The artist had technique, but little inspiration. That this much had been attempted on this planet, Gared thought, suggested Mehnert had been a figure of high renown.

  A frieze of winged skulls circled the chamber midway up the height of the walls. Below them were sconces. Orbiana had lit their torches. Beneath these were the relics of a martial life: sword, lasrifle, uniform, medals. The collection appeared to be intact. There had been no theft. Another sign, Gared thought, of the honour of the settlers of Squire’s Rest. They deserved better than to be crushed beneath the greenskins’ barbarism.

  Gared turned his attention to what he assumed were trophies captured from the general’s battlefields. He searched for some taint, for anything that would suggest the great man’s life was really a lie, and his death a trap that would doom Squire’s Rest and reach out to grasp the Sanctus Reach.

  Quite a few of Mehnert’s souvenirs had been taken from fallen greenskins. Gared saw their crude machetes, unworkable guns, and numerous pieces of armour. Judging by their size, Mehnert or the forces he commanded had slain some formidable specimens. Gared could imagine some of these items being of interest to the Ordo Xenos. A few pieces of armour looked very old, and perhaps those whose province it was to study the ways of the foe would find valuable information here. Perhaps the truth in this tomb was exactly as Orbiana had said.

  But it couldn’t be.

  ‘Anything?’ Styer asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you understand the reason for my doubts?’

  ‘I do, but with respect, brother-justicar, they must be mistaken. The prognostication cannot be questioned.’

  ‘Yet it must be,’ Styer insisted.

  Gared knew he was right. He also knew the justicar was wrong. He understood Styer’s doubts. After what had happened on Angriff Primus, the fog that was gathering around this mission was cause for concern. Gared felt his own doubts gaining strength. This was something he could not allow. The prognostications were too important an element of the Grey Knights crusade against the daemonic to be questioned. The more he looked for clarity on Squire’s Rest, the less there was, and so he needed the certainty of the prognostication as an anchor. The incursion was coming, and it was coming to these galactic coordinates. That was truth. That was the anchor for the actions he and he brothers were taking. If that anchor was pulled, then they were flailing in the dark.

  ‘Perhaps the inquisitor has taken the source of the danger,’ he said.

  ‘The thought had occurred to me,’ Styer said. ‘I felt nothing as she passed, though. Did you?’

  Gared’s psychic powers were stronger and more acutely developed than Styer’s. He had felt no warp-related disturbance in Orbiana’s presence. Still… ‘She was ready to depart. So she must have accomplished her goal here.’

  ‘True.’ Styer was facing the sarcophagus. ‘There is nothing about this tomb that suggests an alliance with the Ruinous Powers. All I see is evidence of this man’s loyalty to the Emperor. Could the sum of his heresy be contain
ed in a single object?’

  ‘I see no other possible explanation.’

  ‘Apart from the mission itself being mistaken, you mean.’

  Gared did not mean that. He could not afford to. With the forces he wielded, and the risks he took in doing so, doubts could be lethal. He walked out of the burial chamber and down the corridor towards the exit. He moved slowly. Though his body was travelling through physical space, his consciousness was plunging forward into the warp. It swam through currents of nightmare possibility, of hideous potential that sought the strength to become real. Beings of desire and hate and teeth clawed at his psychic barriers. They were the predators who waited for any human who dared venture into the lethal thought-potential of the warp. They had a special hatred for Gared and his brothers. The Grey Knights were incorruptible. They could never be prey. The denizens of the warp were drawn to them, maddened by thirst, hunger, and obsessive revenge.

  Gared treated the hunters with caution and with contempt. He was used to their presence. They were always there. He searched for a new pattern, a strengthening current, and emerging vortex. Anything that might signal a daemonic power pulling together its strength for an assault on the materium.

  His search was frustrating, inconclusive and painful. He could find nothing that suggested the prognostication was about to be realised. But his ability to read the currents was hampered. He couldn’t tell if he was seeing disruptions, or if it was his perception that was disrupted.

  He pulled out a few steps before the end of the passage.

  ‘Well?’ Styer asked.

  ‘I don’t know. There is great interference, but I can’t tell if that means anything.’