“Taici,” she said to the leader of her death cultists, who surrounded her in a silent, sinister honour guard. “Follow.” The death cultists slunk out of their grav-couch restraints to surround her. Xiang, a deceptively slightly-built young woman whose death cult mask showed only a pair of exotically-shaped eyes, carried a plain black case containing Ligeia’s effects.
Ligeia left the Hereticus crew on the shuttle and walked elegantly down the ramp to see what she had to work with.
The buildings of Hadjisheim were of pale stone and plaster, with marble tiled roofs that shone in the strong light. The roads were paved light grey. Brightly coloured curtains, banners and signs hung everywhere in contrast to the pale tones of the buildings, announcing shopfronts and street names in a language that used elaborate loops and whorls as an alphabet. Ligeia’s shuttle, on advice from Polonias’s Mission, had landed in a broad round space at the head of Hadjisheim’s longest road, the broad avenue leading up to the Allking’s palace.
It was along this road that the reception had been set. Ligeia had let Polonias know of her visit in time for the Allking to receive her as befitted a visiting dignitary, and he had not disappointed her. The road was lined with ranks of soldiers, men in polished armour over bright crimson uniforms, all carrying spears and shields with the twin crescent design of Allking Rashemha. Behind them, thousands of chattering men, women and children had gathered to watch—word had evidently spread, probably against Polonias’s wishes, that a stranger from the sky was coming to visit, and they all wanted to see her. Ligeia saw the people of Sophano Secundus had an odd blend of dark skin and pale hair, giving them a faintly unearthly look when coupled with the bright colours they seemed to wear habitually.
The soldier-lined avenue ran up toward the Allking’s palace, a creation of massive white stone that reared up to overlook Hadjisheim from a rise in the centre of the city, festooned with banners and pennants in dozens of colours.
The honour guard were riding from the direction of the palace. A hundred of the Allking’s own cavalry, ribbons fluttering from their lances and the powerful sunlight gleaming off their highly polished armour, trotted towards Ligeia. As they came closer, Ligeia saw that most of them were riding tharr rather than horses—tharr were odd hunched creatures with dark, scabbed scaly skin and powerful hind legs that, according to the sketchy histories of Sophano Secundus, could be ridden into fearsome cavalry charges. A few of the officers in the front, their ranks denoted by golden trims to their armour, rode more familiar Terran-style horses, a symbol of prestige since so few breeding animals were ever brought to the planet.
A single rider galloped out of the cavalry ranks. Ligeia sensed her death cultists tensing slightly, their hands ready to fly to the hilts of their swords or throwing knives, but with a motion of her finger Ligeia had them stand down. The rider carried a long curved horn instead of a lance and pulled up suddenly a short distance away, blowing a long rasping blast from his horn. The riders behind him halted at the sound.
“In the nineteenth year of the reign of Allking Rashemha,” he called out in strongly-accented Low Gothic. “His overhighness made it be known that his home is home to the representative of the realms above, that his soldiers are hers to protect her and that his people are her people to exalt her. In the name of the Emperor and of the kings long dead! So has the Allking decreed!”
There was another blast of the horn and the herald rode back into the ranks of the Allking’s cavalry, which trotted forward to surround Ligeia and escort her to the palace. A squire rode forward on a tharr to offer her a Terran horse and, with a nod of appreciation, she mounted it sidesaddle. She had ridden once or twice in her youth but she thought it wisest to let the squire take the reins as the cavalry clattered their way back towards the palace.
The death cultists walked alongside, barely breaking into a jog to keep up with the brisk pace of the escort. Ligeia glanced at the people behind the soldiers lining the road, and the death cultists drew rather more attention than she did. Sophano Secundus had probably never seen anything like them—half a dozen perfectly muscled men and women in skin-tight black bodygloves, three or four weapons apiece, moving with such elegance and grace it was hard to believe they were human. Their sinister, near-featureless masks enhanced the impression that there were not normal faces underneath.
Allking Rashemha met Ligeia at the gates to his palace grounds, a broad belt of lavish lawns, flower beds and stands of exotic trees that surrounded the imposing white walls. Rashemha was a huge man with nut-coloured skin and shockingly pale blond hair and beard, wearing layers of bright flowing silks. Behind him stood a small army of courtiers and advisors, all competing in the brightness and elaboration of their dress but all dwarfed by the presence of their Allking. A small delegation of plainly-dressed young men and women, representing Polonias’s mission, stood to one side.
Ligeia rode up to the Allking and dismounted. The Allking strode forward with a practiced beaming smile of welcome and grabbed Ligeia’s hand in his two massive paws.
“Our people are your people,” he rumbled impressively. “Greetings.”
Ligeia smiled back. The Allking smelled strongly of spices. “Greetings from the Imperium, your overhighness. I am glad you have received me so readily, I have urgent business with Missionary Polonias.”
“Of course. Come inside, Outworlder Ligeia. I would not have the kingdoms of the sky believe the Allking’s hospitality is lacking.”
The delegation headed across the grounds towards the palace. Ligeia saw that the representatives from the mission had a sickly greyish cast to their skin, and she imagined that endless hours of prayer inside the mission temple meant they rarely saw the sun. They wore simple habits of undyed cloth, evidently to show their humility before the Emperor—they would probably be most alarmed to see the extravagance of the Ecclesiarchy in the Imperium proper.
“Our lands are fertile and broad,” the Allking was rumbling, to be echoed by the agreements of his courtiers. “Our people adore their king and the spirits of the kings long dead. They do well in the worship of your Emperor.”
Ligeia wasn’t really listening. She knew that the centre of Hadjisheim was impressive but that the rest of the city, and the rest of the Allking’s domain, was poor and backwards, and the underkings and barons had little ability to properly monitor the population. The Allking’s blustering was less interesting than the palace itself—inside, shaded from the unforgiving sun, the cavernous spaces were cool and the inlaid marble floors formed complicated murals of the deeds of past Allkings. The double eagle of the Imperium crowned every pillar and devotional High Gothic texts were inscribed alongside prayers to the long-dead kings of Sophano Secundus. Gaggles of courtiers gathered around the columns, watching the Allking and his dignitaries as they passed, occasionally applauding as he expounded the glories of his world.
Ligeia saw how fragile Sophano Secundus was in those few minutes. The Allking held his underkings and barons together by the force of his personality. His household troops numbered a few hundred tharrback cavalry, never enough to properly rule even Sophano Secundus’s single continent. A rebel underking could forge havoc, and Ligeia knew this had happened in the past. The Allking’s rule was personal, not by strength but by unspoken agreement. It was weak. It was the way mankind had once ruled itself before the Age of Strife had shown how dangerous it was to rule by anything other than strength and vigilance.
Polonias was waiting in a side chapel, which had been decorated with dark marble and a plethora of incense burners more typical of Imperial architecture. Ligeia made her excuses to the Allking, promised to join him in an extravagant feast that evening, and took her death cultists into the chapel. The courtiers followed their Allking into the heart of the palace, towards the audience chamber where Rashemha the Stout would continue the long task of holding his planet together.
Polonias was an old, old man, stooped and gnarled. His long robes hid a body that moved achingly slowly through the
incense-drenched interior of the chapel like a ghost. His head was covered by the heavy cowl of his habit and a golden double eagle hung from around his neck, giving the impression that he was bending under its weight.
Ligeia waved her death cultists back to a respectable distance. Polonias was surrounded by piles of papers and books, spread across the stone floor or lying on the front pews.
“Missionary,” said Ligeia. “I bear the authority of the Emperor’s Inquisition, and I require your cooperation.”
Polonias smiled, and the visible lower half of his face creased up unpleasantly. “Inquisitor Ligeia. I trust the Allking gave you an appropriate welcome.”
“He made sure I was thoroughly impressed. I was more concerned with what you might tell me.” Ligeia walked to the front of the chapel and sat down on the front pew, surrounded by Polonias’s books.
“As you can see,” said Polonias, waving a liver-spotted hand to indicate the spilled parchment and piled books, “I have been preparing for your visit. There is only one reason why the Ordo Malleus would visit my world. You think I have not been thorough enough in preparing the minds of the people for the inevitable designs of the Enemy.”
“I am not here to accuse,” replied Ligeia calmly, picking up the closest book and turning it over in her hands. “I am here to investigate. Someone or something on Sophano Secundus is connected to the imminent rebirth of a very powerful daemon.”
Polonias looked up at her and for the first time Ligeia saw his eyes—large and pale like the eyes of a sea creature. “Daemons? The throne preserve us.”
“The inquisitors responsible for the Trail have very little information on Sophano Secundus, and that makes you my best source.” Ligeia spoke almost conversationally, inspecting the cover of the book as she did so. It was heavy and old, sealed with an elaborate brass lock mechanism. “I am looking for any signs of cult activity on your world.”
Polonias shook his head. “The people here are devout in their worship. There are few rivals to the Imperial cult, just a few ancestor-worshipping sects. I have felt no trace of the Enemy amongst them and I would have let the cardinals know if I had. Of course, there are tribes scattered through the forests that the Allking can do little about, but they are bandits, not fanatics.”
Ligeia snapped her fingers and Xiang strode forward lithely, holding Ligeia’s case. The death cultist snapped the clasps and the case opened. Ligeia took out the ugly wood sculpture from Victrix Sonora. “What can you tell me about this?”
Polonias shuffled forward and bent over to peer at the sculpture. Ligeia noted that he smelled strongly of incense and chemicals, as if he was pumped full of preservatives to keep his ancient body from deteriorating. “A hideous thing. Degenerates of the nobility used to collect such things, I believe, back when St. Evisser’s worship was at its height. Traders would come to buy them off the forest peoples. There has been no such trade for many years. This planet’s art is a curiosity now, nothing more.”
“When were the last ones taken off-planet?” Polonias shrugged. “Fifty years. Seventy. The Allking will have some historical advisor who could tell you. I think such heathen images are hideous, myself. I preach against such things.” Polonias straightened and Ligeia placed the statue back in the case—gratefully, because she could feel it squirming in her hands.
“My world has many problems,” continued Polonias, “but the grasp of the Enemy is not one of them. The people are poor and benighted and the land provides little, but there is no corruption here. I have preached from Hadjisheim to the Callianan Flow on the northern coast and all the wickedness I have seen is wrought by human hands.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Ligeia. “But that makes my work here rather less promising.”
“I am sorry I could not help you more. The Emperor’s Inquisition will have to look elsewhere for its ghosts and its heretics.” Ligeia thought Polonias was smiling as he spoke, but she could not be sure.
“Well, then, it seems I have little more to do here.” Ligeia stood, straightening her long skirts. “I will go through the motions, see what I can get from the Allking and his advisors, but I doubt they know anything meaningful that you do not. You are well-read,” she added, holding up the book she had found. “I haven’t seen a volume of Myrmandos’s Lamentations for a long time.”
“My predecessor left it for me,” said Polonias. “I have always felt Myrmandos lacking, but his parables are simple enough to use in my sermons.”
“The cardinals on the Trail have made it a standard text for seminary study,” said Ligeia. “They would be disappointed to hear your lack of appreciation.”
“Well, the cardinals are entitled to disagree with a crude old missionary,” said Polonias.
“The Lamentations,” said Ligeia simply, “have been lost for twelve hundred years. “No member of the Ecclesiarchy would have a copy unless they had been alive since then, not even the cardinals.”
The death cultists strode forward from the back of the chapel, swords and throwing blades in their hands. Ligeia’s hand was held flat on the cover of the Lamentations, absorbing the flow of information confirming the book was the same volume believed lost by all the authorities she knew, including Trepytos.
“I do not believe you are Polonias,” continued Ligeia. “By the authority of the Holy Orders of the Emperor’s Inquisition I demand you submit yourself to moral examination. You will accept all grades of interrogation and your every word will be true at the expense of your life and your soul.” Her voice was suddenly cold, and the muscles of her death cultists were so taut she could almost hear them humming.
“Stupid girl,” spat the missionary. “Stupid, stubborn, weak little girl!” Something flared under his cowl and his eyes were suddenly burning with violet fire, illuminating a face so hollow and aged that no human could have naturally lived all the years that weighed down on it.
The air turned thick as Missionary Crucien, his identity revealed for the first time in millennia, was suddenly ablaze with sorcerous fire.
A handful of seconds later, the Rubicon lost all contact with the surface of Sophano Secundus.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SOPHANO SECUNDUS
“Nothing,” said the crewman at the comms helm. “We’ve lost it all. Life signs, the shuttle beacon, everything.”
Alaric jumped down from the command pulpit. “How?”
“Imnot…”
“On screen!”
The image of Sophano Secundus on the viewscreen disappeared to be replaced with shifting static. The crewmen in the sensor pit in the floor of the bridge, surrounded by monitors and chattering cogitator banks, scrambled to find some meaningful signal from the surface. There was a flash as something shorted and sparked.
“Tancred, Genhain, get your squads onto your Thunderhawk and launch, await landing coordinates. Santoro, wait for me. I’ll be there as soon as I know more.”
“Trouble, justicar?” came Tancred’s gruff voice.
“Nothing but,” replied Alaric, as something appeared on the viewscreen.
The image was of the hinterland of Hadjisheim, dominated by a steep valley surrounded by rolling forests. Where Hadjisheim itself should have been was a purple-black circle of interference, boiling evilly.
“Are they jamming us?”
“If they are it’s nothing we’ve seen before,” shouted someone from the sensor pit.
Alaric paused, looking at the horrible stormy blot on the surface of Sophano Secundus. “I think they’ve seen plenty of it,” replied Alaric. “That’s sorcery.”
Even from orbit he could feel it, fingers of magic spattering against his armoured soul like cold rain.
There was no time for the wargear rites or for the ritual purification of the soul that a Grey Knight should undergo before battle. Ligeia was down there, and if she was not dead already then she very soon would be. The Grey Knights were her only chance.
“Navigation, take the pulpit!” called Alaric as he ran towards the d
oors leading out of the bridge. “Get us into a launch position. Flight control, get me a landing course before I get to the flight decks!”
Alaric mumbled quickly through the Seven Prayers of Detestation as he ran through the decks towards the Rubicon’s flight hangar, the ship’s engines rumbling angrily somewhere below him. Ordo Malleus crewmen and servitors hurried through the corridors around him and the ship lurched suddenly as it made a sharp turn to bring its flight doors around to face the planet’s surface.
“… and fill my soul with righteous hate to steel my arm the stronger…”
“The astropaths are reporting something in the warp,” came a voice from the bridge, cutting through the vox-traffic. “They say it’s screaming.”
Alaric wrenched open the bulkhead leading to the flight deck. Two of the Rubicon’s three Thunderhawks were fuelled up and ready for flight, the deck servitors even now unhooking the promethium lines from the hulls. Tancred and Genhain’s gunship was ready for takeoff, while Alaric and Santoro’s still had its ramp down. The rest of Alaric’s squad were already waiting for him.
“… and guide my aim, bless my gun, make my hate your hate and through me let it scorch the flesh of the Great Enemy…”
“We’ve got a signal!” came a vox from the comms helm.
“Ligeia?”
“Taici.”
“Good enough. What does he say?”
“It’s just a string of coordinates. But it’s definitely him.”
“Where?”
“The valley outside the city, just beyond the zone of interference.”
[Grey Knights 01] - Grey Knights Page 11
