[Grey Knights 01] - Grey Knights

by Ben Counter - (ebook by Undead)

  Alaric climbed out of the tank, feeling the tightness in his muscles. Alaric had seen Valinov, just as the storm of las-fire had ripped out of the underground temple from the cultists under Valinov’s command. He had seen a tall slim man with a sharp face and shaven, tattooed head, barking orders in a foul warp-taught language. His cultists—the mission briefing had suggested several hundred of them in the underground temple complex—were hunched and pallid-skinned, wearing tattered robes of grimy yellow, but they had been well-armed and perfectly willing to die beneath the storm bolters and Nemesis weapons of the Grey Knights. Alaric had been one of the first in, leading the squad he had recently come to command.

  Now the assault was over and the survivors were back on Titan.

  “How long?” asked Alaric. The orderly handed him a towel and Alaric began to wipe off the fluid—the healing fluid was cold and sticky, and pooled on the cold stone floor around his feet.

  “Three months,” replied Glaivan. “The Rubicon made good speed back. They wanted to make sure Valinov was placed in Mimas as soon as possible. That man is pure corruption.” Glaivan spat on the stone floor, and a tiny hygiene servitor scuttled over to clean up the spittle. “To think. An inquisitor. Radicalism grows ever stronger, I fear.”

  It was a measure of the respect in which Glaivan was held that he could voice such concerns freely. The Grey Knights were technically autonomous, but the Ordo Malleus were in practice their masters, and they certainly didn’t want the Grey Knights harbouring seditious opinions about the Inquisition. Radicalism was, officially, a non-existent threat, and that was all the Malleus would officially say to the Grey Knights about it.

  Alaric sifted through his last memories of the raid—gunfire streaking through grimy underground tunnels, battle-brothers charging in a storm of explosions. If the Rubicon had indeed made good speed then Alaric had probably been in Glaivan’s care for a couple of weeks. “Who was lost?”

  “Interrogator Iatonn will not survive.” Glaivan glanced sadly at the interrogator’s body, opened up beneath the autosurgeon. “LeMal, Encalion and Baligant died in the assault. Gaignun and Justicar Naimon died on the Rubicon, Tolas and Evain in my care.”

  “Encalion and Tolas were my men.” Alaric had attained the rank of justicar three years before, and he had lost men before—but he had seen them die. It was part of the bond between Alaric and his squad that they had all shared in the deaths of their battle-brothers, but this time Alaric had not been there.

  “I know, justicar. There is a place for them in the vaults. Grand Master Tencendur has decreed they will be interred after your debriefing. I shall tell him you are fit.” Glaivan picked up one of the long sheets of parchment and passed it through his metallic hands, reading the patterns in Alaric’s heartbeats and blood pressure. “I should not say much until Tencendur has had his say, but from Nyxos I hear that your battle-brothers did you proud. When you fell they pressed the attack for revenge instead of faltering in despair. I have seen many leaders in this Chapter and what marks them out is that whatever they do, even falling to the Enemy, they inspire the men who follow them. Your Marines thought you were dead, and they fought on all the harder. Remember that, young justicar, for I feel you shall not remain a mere justicar for much longer.”

  Alaric pulled out the last of the needles from his skin. “I need to get back to my cell,” he said. “There are Rites of Contrition for my armour before the artificers can repair it. And I must have missed out on much prayer.”

  “Do as you see fit. Soon you will be ready to fight again. Chaplain Durendin is receiving confessions in the Mandulian Chapel and it sounds as if you could use his counsel before debriefing. I shall have the servitors bring you a habit.”

  Glaivan waved an order and two of the menial servitors rolled off through the cellars of the apothecarion on their tracks to fetch Alaric some clothing so he could walk through the corridors of Titan with suitable humility. There was a great deal Alaric had to do after any battle, let alone one where he had been both severely wounded and been exposed to potential corruption. He would have to confess, receive purification, have his battlegear repaired and reconsecrated, see his name entered in the immense tomes recording the deeds of the Grey Knights, and be debriefed by Grand Master Tencendur and the inquisitors who had been ultimately responsible for the attack.

  The life of a Grey Knight was ritual and purification punctuated by savage combat against the foulest of foes—just a few days of it would break a lesser man, and sometimes Alaric was grateful he could not remember anything else. But this was not the time to skirt the edges of heretical doubt. Valinov was captured and his cult shattered. There was a victory to celebrate, and there were fallen brothers to remember.

  Inquisitor Gholic Ren-Sar Valinov had been a member of the Ordo Malleus since his recruitment as an interrogator by the late Lord Inquisitor Barbillus.

  Barbillus was an old-school inquisitor, the kind of man sculpted into the friezes of Malleus temples and used as exemplars of righteous valour in sermons. Barbillus had worn armour covered in gold filigree depicting daemons crushed beneath the Emperor’s feet and wielded a power hammer with a head carved from meteoric iron. He had ridden his war pulpit into the deepest pits of daemonic horror. He was a soldier, a fighter, a smiter of the foul and a scourge of the heretic. When the citizens of the Imperium heard rumours of the Imperium’s secret defenders in the Inquisition, they imagined men like Barbillus.

  Barbillus had an extensive staff, mostly of warriors who rode with him into battle, recruited from martial cultures all over the Imperium. But he also needed people to get him to the battlefield. Investigators. Interviewers. Scientists. Some of Barbillus’s rear echelon staff went deep undercover for him, infiltrating noble houses suspected of daemonancy or vicious hive-scum gangs sponsored by hidden cultist cells. They were disposable and exposed, both to the violence that would follow discovery and the madness that could result from seeing too much of the Enemy. They did what they did because it was their way to join the fight against Chaos.

  Very few of them survived to advance in Barbillus’s private army. One of them was Gholic Ren-Sar Valinov.

  The Ordo Malleus’s records of Valinov’s origins were patchy, mainly because he erased or altered most of the information held about him in Inquisition archives. He came from the Segmentum Solar, that was certain, from one of the massively industrialised worlds of the Imperium’s heartland where only the sharpest and most ruthless could hope to gain recognition from off-world.

  His birthplace was not recorded but Barbillus recruited him during a spectacular purge of the debauched naval aristocracy on Rhanna.

  There were some suggestions that Valinov’s position in the Administratum on Rhanna gave him access to the statistical information that, in the right hands, led Barbillus to cells of sorcerers and pleasure-seekers in the planet’s nobility. Other inquisitors had been adamant that Valinov’s skills could only have been honed in the Adeptus Arbites, or the Planetary Defence Force, or even the criminal gangs that ruled huge swathes of Rhanna’s underhive. But Valinov’s most useful skills were clear from the start—he was an archmanipulator of people, capable of flattery and coercion alike. He could draw the most sensitive information out of the wariest suspects.

  Valinov was just the man for Barbillus’s rear echelon staff, joining noble families or wealthy guilds or criminal cartels to hunt down sources of heresy and forbidden magic. Over six years, Valinov’s work led Barbillus to the heart of K’Sharr the Butcher’s criminal empire, the hidden cults that had seeded the dockyard world of Talshen III with heretics, the savage pre-Imperial human tribes of Gerentulan Minor, and a dozen other pits of corruption. He was good. Barbillus saw promise in Valinov and marked him out as senior interrogator. It was expected that Valinov would become Barbillus’s advisor, coming out of the Imperium’s underworld to ride at Barbillus’s side.

  Then came Agnarsson’s Hold. If Barbillus did not die fighting the Daemon Prince Malygrymm the Bloods
tained on that planet then he certainly died when the Exterminatus was brought to bear. It was not the first time Barbillus had ordered the death of a world. This time it was his personal staff who launched the cyclonic torpedoes from Barbillus’s fleet of warships, having been ordered by Barbillus to destroy Agnarsson’s Hold if he didn’t return from the daemon-infested surface. Senior Interrogator Valinov had watched from Barbillus’s flagship as the verdant agri-world was swallowed up by the magma welling up from its ruptured crust. Malygrymm was destroyed, but Barbillus never returned to his ship.

  Temples were built in the name of Lord Inquisitor Barbillus. Statues of him, grim-faced and battered, invariably smiting some indistinct horror with his ensorcelled hammer, adorned Inquisitorial fortresses throughout the Segmentum Solar and beyond. His name was inscribed on the wall of the Hall of Heroes in the Imperial palace and written in the pages of Imperial history.

  The Inquisition’s files were clear on how Barbillus’s staff and resources passed into the control of the Grand Conclave of the Ordo Malleus, and how Valinov served a second apprenticeship with a dozen inquisitors. No records remained, however, to indicate under what circumstances Valinov was recognized by the Ordo Malleus as an inquisitor in his own right, though doubtless it happened. He was active somewhere near Thracian Primaris during the brutal campaigns around the Eye of Terror, and probably played a part in the subjugation of Chaos-infected species discovered during the tail-end of the Damocles Crusade. But there were no details. Valinov had been thorough. Probably he had turned by then, and would have covered his tracks as he went in case another inquisitor found clues of his changing allegiances.

  There was almost no information at all about Valinov’s biggest mission. He went to the hive world of V’Run with a division of storm troopers from the Lastrati 79th, a coven of sanctioned psykers from the Scholastica Psykana and a squadron of Sword-class escort starships. He was officially following up reports of a devolution cult that ruled large swathes of V’Run’s underhive and ash wastelands, but afterwards it was concluded that Valinov had created the threat to give him an excuse to intercede.

  All that was known about the V’Run mission was that two weeks after Valinov arrived the planet was swallowed up by a boiling lightning-scattered veil of incandescent stellar cloud, a warp storm so localised and complete that it could only have been deliberately created. The hive world was drowned in the nightmare dimension of the warp. The storm was impenetrable and no one could be sure what happened to the nineteen billion men, women and children who made up the population of V’Run, but astropaths reported hearing screams emanating from the planet for light years around.

  Valinov left a trail of atrocity across the Segmentum Solar. He immolated the capital of Port St. Indra by overloading the city’s heatsinks. Chaos-worshipping pirate ships wiped out a pilgrim convoy off the Nememean Cloud and named Valinov as their leader. As if desperate to commit depredations in the name of Chaos, Valinov wreaked indiscriminate havoc. The Ordo Malleus had by now deployed several inquisitors to trail him and anticipate his next moves, and they tracked him to the plague-stricken communities of the Gaolven Belt. Valinov had joined up with a cult formed from plague survivors who believed they owed their survival to the pantheon of Chaos, and welded them in a matter of weeks into a well-armed and fanatically motivated army manning a fortified asteroid.

  The Ordo Malleus concluded that Valinov was preparing for a last stand. If that was what he wanted, then that was what they would give him. The Conclave approached Grand Master Tencendur, and he agreed to send a force of Grey Knights to spearhead the assault on Valinov’s fortress.

  The first man out of the boarding torpedoes and into the breach had been justicar Alaric.

  The Mandulian Chapel was a long gallery with a dizzyingly high ceiling, thick with columns and with statues in niches running along the walls. To reach the huge, three-panelled altar at the front of the chapel, a Grey Knight had to walk past the unwavering stone eyes of hundreds of Imperial heroes. Some of them were legends, some had been forgotten, and they represented every part of the web of organisations that kept the Imperium together. Closest to the altar was the statue of Grand Master Mandulis himself, who had died a thousand years before—his figure was carved into one of the pillars as if he were holding up the chapel’s ceiling.

  The message was clear. Mandulis, like every Grey Knight, kept the Imperium from collapsing.

  Alaric walked down the centre aisle, the filters built into his nose and throat picking out particles of incense that billowed from censers high up in the shadows by the ceiling. Flickering candles ringed the columns and were tended by a tiny servitor that hummed through the nave lighting extinguished wicks. The faltering light glinted off the gold on the altar, wrought by Chapter artisans three hundred years before. The centre image depicted the Emperor in the days before the Horns Heresy his face turned away as if in recognition of his near-death in the closing days of the Heresy. The scene was flanked by scenes of Grey Knights—not crushing daemons or heretics but kneeling, their arms laid down. It was an image of humility that formed the centerpiece of the Chapel to remind the Grey Knights that no matter how strong they were, they could only prevail with the will of the Emperor.

  Alaric had not yet had his battle-gear returned by the artificers and so he wore a simple black and grey habit. He felt naked in that place of worship, his bare feet against stone worn smooth by centuries of armoured boots. His wounds still hurt and he could feel the channel of rapidly healing scar tissue where the las-bolt had burned through his abdomen. His skin felt raw from the healing tank. But worse, the idea of helplessness was hot and angry in his mind. He had not been there when his battle-brothers died.

  Chaplain Durendin was waiting in the otherwise empty chapel. The chaplain wore his enormous suit of Terminator armour as he always did when he was seeing to the Chapter’s spiritual health. One arm was painted a glossy black to signify his office as chaplain and the rest was the traditional gunmetal grey. Durendin wore the same pair of ornate lightning claws that had been passed down since the Chapter’s earliest days.

  Alaric reached the altar where Durendin stood, and quickly kneeled before the chaplain. Then both men kneeled to the Emperor’s image on the altar.

  “Tencendur told me you would wish to see me,” said Durendin as they stood again. The chaplain’s face was mostly obscured by the cowl he wore, and like any good chaplain he was a difficult man to read.

  “You know what happened, chaplain. I was wounded and unconscious. Encalion and Tolas died. I have lost men before, but I was always at their side. I wasn’t there this time.”

  “I will not absolve you of those deaths, justicar. Every one of us must accept responsibility for the deaths of our battle-brothers. You have not been a justicar long, Alaric. You clearly have capacity to lead but you have only taken a few steps on the path.”

  “That is what worries me, chaplain. I have never felt this doubt. Everything I have learned as a Grey Knight has told me that once the core of faith is breached then I am worth nothing as a warrior.”

  “And you think that if you cannot forget that feeling of helplessness you felt when Valinov’s men shot you down, you cannot trust the purity of your soul?” Durendin turned and somewhere under that cowl he stared deep into Alaric’s spirit. “Remember it, Alaric. Remember what it means to be broken and laid low. The mark of a leader is not whether you can avoid such misfortune, but whether you can take it and turn it into something that makes you stronger. Your battle-brothers are dead, but you can ensure their lives had meaning. That is what it means to lead.”

  “I knew it would not be easy, chaplain,” said Alaric, “but the size of the task has never been more obvious. I know that this will not be the first test, and certainly not the hardest. I am only just beginning to really understand the sacrifices the grand masters must have made for the Knights to follow them. Their faith must be absolute. I do not think there is a higher aim in the Imperium than to be trusted a
s a grand master by the Grey Knights.”

  “But you can do it?”

  Alaric paused. He looked at the slices of polished red gemstones that made up the armour of the gilded Emperor, at the shadows covering the ceiling far above, and at the figure of Mandulis holding up the Imperium on his own. “Yes. Yes I can.”

  “That is the difference, Alaric. You cannot believe anything else. What you call doubt is the pain of learning a hard lesson. That you learned it at all proves what the Chapter has always thought about you. You have curiosity and intelligence, and at the same time the trust of your men. You represent a rare combination of qualities that means you will never be satisfied until you see your duty done at the highest level.”

  Alaric stood and bowed quickly to the gilded Emperor. “Tencendur will be waiting for me, chaplain. I will think about what you have told me.”

  “You may not have that luxury, justicar,” said Durendin as Alaric turned to leave. “Given what was found at the Gaolven Belt, catching Valinov may have been just the first step.”

  The Ordo Malleus had taken the rings of Saturn shortly after the inception of the Inquisition, and had turned them into its own unofficial domain. The lord inquisitors of the Ordo Malleus ruled Saturn’s moons absolutely, because that was the only way they could ensure the security of their facilities. The Malleus controlled some of the most dangerous artefacts, texts, and people in the galaxy. The immensely complicated geometry of Saturn’s rings means it was all but impossible for any enemy force to penetrate the thousands of turbolaser defences that bristled from asteroids captured by Saturn’s gravity. The ordo controlled the only reliable way in and out of the rings, the naval fortress on the outermost major moon Iapetus.

  Mimas, the closest major moon to the vast swirling mass of Saturn, was disfigured by an immense impact scar covering a quarter of the surface. Built into that crater was the Inquisitorial prison where the worst of the worst were held in complexes of isolated cells with psychic wards woven into the walls, guarded by gun-servitors and a regiment of Ordo Malleus storm troopers.