“Motives? We already know all about their motives, lord inquisitor,” said one of the other navy officers, looking disdainfully at Horst and his entourage. It was Ravensburg’s chief adjutant, Commodore Admiral Kirponos. Horst had heard that the commodore had been a brave and fearless ship’s captain, and now he had the proof, for even here at the very heart of Gothic Sector Naval Command, it took a brave if perhaps rash man to stand up against the authority of a Lord Inquisitor emissary of the High Council of Terra. The navy commander stared Horst in the face as he continued.
“We face another Black Crusade, this much we know. Both the Inquisition and the High Lords of Terra have confirmed this, and the crusade’s motives are no different from the previous ones which have assaulted the Imperium for the last ten thousand years: wanton destruction of Imperial worlds, the defeat of the Emperor’s armed forces, the overthrow of Imperial order and the subjugation of the Emperor’s subjects. These are the only motives which count in the minds of our enemies. Twelve times before, the Imperium has faced and withstood such assaults. This time, with the Emperor’s grace and with the forces under the command of the Lord Admiral, shall be no different, no matter how many ‘Planet Killer’ weapons the enemy may possess. The Despoiler and his heretic lackeys will be defeated and sent back into their Eye of Terror bolt-hole to lick their wounds for another thousand years.”
Yes, a brave man; the Imperium needs more like this one, thought Horst, realizing that this was neither the time nor the place to impose the full crushing weight of his authority upon Kirponos, and the other loyal servants of the Emperor assembled here. He would need the co-operation and trust of men such as this in the days to come, he knew, and he needed to make allies of them, not enemies.
“So I pray, lord commodore,” said Horst, bowing in the man’s direction, “and, like you, I too assumed that we were facing a Black Crusade, and not a mere series of raids as we first assumed. However,” he continued, directing his gaze towards Ravensburg and deliberately bringing a more authoritative tone into his voice, “I now have good reason to believe that what we are witnessing is something else, part of a larger and hidden stratagem which could herald something far greater and more terrible than any Black Crusade.”
He paused to allow his words to take effect, hearing the muted gasps and quickly-stilled utterances from amongst the throng of navy officers. When he continued, his next words were aimed solely at Ravensburg.
“The Despoiler moves in shadows and lies, my lord, hiding his secrets within other secrets, and his plans are already far further advanced than we could almost fear possible. We must act soon to counter him, or else we risk losing far more in this war than the entire Gothic sector.”
Horst locked eyes with Ravensburg, holding the Lord Admiral’s gaze for a moment in a long look which communicated much about the inquisitor’s mood of deadly earnestness. Ravensburg paused for a moment, holding the other man’s gaze, and then spoke.
“Tell me what you require, lord inquisitor, and I will do everything in my power to make it so,”
“What I have to tell you is for your ears only, lord admiral.”
Ravensburg nodded, and made a curt gesture of dismissal to his staff. “Gentlemen, leave us, if you please.”
Both men waited as their entourages and attendants, together totalling over two hundred in number, left the strategium chamber. Stavka was the last to exit, and would stand guard at the doors, permitting no one to enter until he had received the correct vox code signal from Horst. Ravensburg waited until the doors had been swung shut before turning to look expectantly at Horst.
Horst began to talk. When he had finished, some three hours later, the nature of the things he had told Ravensburg and the conclusions the two men had come to would change not only the course of the Gothic Sector War, but also even possibly alter the fate of the Imperium itself.
TWO
With a rumble like the voices of angry gods, the two metre-thick blast doors ground open before Siaphas, permitting him entry into the Warmaster’s throne room.
The squat, hulking shapes of the two daemon-possessed dreadnoughts on either side of the entranceway turned towards him, emitting low electronic snarls of warning. Blood-slicked servo-motors hummed and deadly heavy bolter weapon arms were aimed in readiness at him. Flickering pencils of red light played over Siaphas as the dreadnoughts’ targeter senses zeroed in on him, and the Chaos sorcerer felt cold, inquiring tendrils of daemon-thought probing at the surface of his consciousness.
His fanged lips formed and spoke a word of power, and, with an angry mechanical growl of what sounded almost like disappointment, the daemon guardians of the entrance to the Warmaster’s throne chamber retreated back to their guard-posts on either side of the doorway.
“Enter, Siaphas of Eidolon,” intoned the cold, mocking voice of Abaddon the Despoiler, “and be welcome amongst us.”
Siaphas shuffled forward, the thick, flesh-fused mass of his left leg dragging heavily behind him. He was a champion of Tzeentch, and he was here at the Warmaster’s summons as a one-time commander of one of his master’s legion armies, but, somehow, he sensed that something was strangely amiss on this occasion. Fear flickered through his mind and the dark, twisting thing within him, that part of him which he had long ago offered up to the Lord of Change, lapped eagerly at such thoughts, relishing the taste of his terror.
He moved towards the Warmaster’s throne dais, aware of the many eyes upon him. This was the first time for more than four years that he had been permitted into the Warmaster’s presence, and he was keenly aware of the suspicious glances and whispered sniggering from amongst the groups of courtiers flanking the procession-way leading towards the Despoiler’s throne. There were many old enemies of his here, Siaphas knew, long-time rivals and also more than a few former allies whom he had been happy to use and then ruthlessly discard during what had been a swift and deeply satisfying ascent up through the ranks of the Despoiler’s warlord cadre.
And then, four years ago now, had come the invasion of Helia IV. It had been Siaphas who had first suggested the strategy of unleashing terror fleets on the Imperial worlds within the Gothic sector. It had been Siaphas who had cast the warp-runes and declared the omens favourable for the attack on the world of Helia IV, and it had been Siaphas who became the object of the Despoiler’s wrath when the invasion fleet and three entire Chaos Legions of troops had been all but annihilated by the Imperium fleet which had unexpectedly arrived to defend the world from the Warmaster’s attack. It had all been the fault of that fool Varro, of course. It had been he who had led his fleet straight into the jaws of the Imperial trap, but Varro was gone, vaporised along with his flagship the Lord Seth during the battle, and the fury of Abaddon’s displeasure had fallen solely on Siaphas alone.
The sorcerer knew that he had been fortunate to survive the experience. The Warmaster did not tolerate failure, and the normal penalty for those who disappointed him was to be consigned to an eternity of suffering as flesh-fodder, doomed to serve as the physical vessel for a warp daemon. There were many such daemon-possessed creatures serving throughout the ranks of the Despoiler’s forces: as commanders of his Chaos hordes; as navigators aboard his warships, using their mystic daemon-sight to guide his fleets through the warp; as familiars for his sorcerers and as advisors within his own throne room, offering the Warmaster whispered counsels that came direct from the great Powers of the Warp themselves.
There was one such creature present here now, hunched at the foot of the steps of the Warmaster’s dais, drooling black slime from between its bloody lips as it strained against the heavy rune-marked iron chain around its neck, growling in discontent at its imprisonment, chained as it was to the stone slabs of the dais steps and trapped inside a too-weak physical shell and cut off from the limitless freedoms of the warp. In a sudden flash of unwelcome prescience, through his own warp-given mystic powers, Siaphas for a moment saw his own face reflected in the creature’s shifting features, reminding h
im that there was still an agonised vestige of the body’s original human occupant trapped in there with the daemon-thing spirit, and reminding him again of just how fortunate he had been to escape a similar fate.
As he approached the Warmaster’s dais, he looked around, quickly spotting the figure of his benefactor standing in the shadows behind the throne. Zaraphiston was Abaddon’s chief lieutenant and personal Chaos sorcerer; he had also been Siaphas’s mentor. It had only been through Zaraphiston’s personal intervention that Siaphas had been allowed to escape the awful fate that would otherwise have been his due punishment for failing the Warmaster.
Siaphas searched the face of his one-time mentor and patron for any flicker of acknowledgement or due as to why he had been summoned back to Abaddon’s court after four years in exile amongst some of the most obscure and far-flung reaches of the Warmaster’s domain, but all that met him in reply was the carefully-guarded blank gaze of the elder sorcerer’s hooded eyes. After millennia in the service of the Despoiler, the Chaos sorcerer was a master in keeping any sign of his true feelings or motivations well buried.
Siaphas secretly knew that Zaraphiston bore little love for the Despoiler, and suspected that his former master’s ambitions went far higher than merely being content to serve as Abaddon’s pet sorcerer.
Zaraphiston was not alone in this regard: many before him had plotted in secret against the Warmaster and the husks of their daemon-devoured remains were there for all to see, hanging around the walls of the vast chamber alongside all the other captured war banners and heraldries of thousands of Imperial Guard regiments and more than a hundred Space Marine Chapters, mute evidence of the Warmaster’s victories over his enemies.
No, Siaphas knew, as he painfully threw himself to his knees and bowed in supplication before the figure seated on the throne, Abaddon the Despoiler, Warmaster of Chaos, Commander of the Black Crusades and Heir to the Glories of Horus, was not an opponent to be underestimated. That was why this shameful display of abeyance was necessary; it was the only way to find the path back into Abaddon’s favour and into the ranks of his warlord commanders. There were many others here who harboured the same secret ambitions as Siaphas and his master Zaraphiston, who were not content to accept the rank positions within the Legions of Chaos which Abaddon had already deemed was the highest position that any of them would ever attain within the service of the Powers of Chaos. There were many here who were not content to merely serve, but wished to rule instead, and Siaphas was one of them.
He would not waste this opportunity, he promised himself. He would carry out whatever trifling and unworthy task the Despoiler required of him, and then he would be free to reclaim his place amongst his peers. Free to plot and scheme amongst those with similar ambitions to his own. There were many within the Legions of Chaos who considered this assault on the Gothic sector to be a foolhardy and dangerous venture. They whispered that the Warmaster had been led astray by false prophecy voices within the warp; that, after ten thousand years, the heir of Horus was finally losing his grip on power; that this war should have been won by now and that, with another and more able Chaos Legion commander seated on the throne of the Warmaster, it still might not be too late to salvage the damage done by Abaddon’s endless schemes within schemes and private vendettas.
Sometimes, such whispers reached the ears of the Warmaster himself, and he was able to trace them back to their source. The remains of such unfortunates were still here for all to see on the walls around the throne room, so Siaphas was careful to mask his thoughts from Abaddon’s all-seeing gaze, and show the Warmaster only the same fawning, unquestioningly obedient facade as that presented by all the rest of the Despoiler’s witless and craven lackeys.
So, mindful of what was expected of him, Siaphas prostrated himself before the Warmaster’s throne. “It is my pleasure only to serve you and the Powers of the Warp, Warmaster,” he dutifully intoned, not daring to raise his head until Abaddon had spoken.
“Indeed,” came the reply, in a disdainful voice containing less warmth than the chill depths between the furthest stars. “Rise, loyal Siaphas, and hear why we have at last sent for you again.”
Siaphas rose to his feet, and looked up at the figure on the throne. The eyes of Abaddon the Despoiler, as dark and fathomless as the outer gulfs, stared back at him, catching him in their cold gaze and seeming to strip him bare of all defences. For a moment, Siaphas wanted to confess his many disloyalties and those of others to the Warmaster, but then his mystic training took hold once more and he managed to break the spell, looking quickly away under the clumsy pretence of bowing his head in supplication. The possessed thing crouching at the foot of the throne dais snickered in cruel humour at the sorcerer’s discomfort, and its mocking laugh found subtle echoes amongst the watching crowd of courtiers.
Siaphas’s mind seethed with hatred and humiliation, but he choked the feeling back down within himself. “My life and soul for Chaos, Warmaster,” he managed to stammer out. “Tell me what you require me to do, and I will move the stars to fulfil your command.”
“The war goes well,” intoned Abaddon in his cold, dead voice, “but our enemies grow ever more desperate as the tide of battle continues to turn against them. In their desperation, they reach out in search of allies. They must not be allowed to succeed. This is the task we require of you, sorcerer.”
Hope and relief surged through Siaphas. This was more than he had ever dreamed of, and already that aspect within him which belonged to the Changer of the Ways was spinning the first plots and schemes using visions of the forces and resources which would no doubt be put at his disposal. “You honour me, Warmaster,” he said, careful to keep out of his voice any hint of what was going on in his mind. “What forces will I be given to command in your name? What size of warfleet? How many legions of troops?”
“Warfleets? Legions?” answered the Despoiler, with a mocking edge to his voice. “You misunderstand, little sorcerer. The enemies of the false emperor seek allies, but we have found allies of our own. Contact has already been made, and now you and one other will join them as my ambassadors to ensure that their part of the bargain is carried out as I have commanded. Do this thing, and the favour of the Great Powers will be upon you. Fail, and we will not be so merciful as we have in the past.”
Siaphas’s thoughts were a turmoil of confused emotions. To be the Warmaster’s personal envoy was an honour granted to few, but why had he, who had been out of favour for such a dangerously long time, been chosen for this task? Who were these mysterious allies, and what prize could have tempted them to strike a bargain with one as notorious as Abaddon the Despoiler?
Siaphas risked a quick glance at the figure of his patron standing to the side of the throne. Zaraphiston stood silent and immobile, his face hidden within the shadows of his hood, but Siaphas had to suppress a smile as he saw his former master’s hand brush casually and haphazardly on the rune-inscribed hem of his robes. To anyone watching, it might have looked like an unconscious gesture, but to a student of the master Chaos sorcerer, it was a clear signal, communicating much in the placement of the fingers and the gold-threaded rune signs which they briefly touched upon.
The thought flashed through Siaphas’s mind. A warning! There is a trap lying in wait here, but also a great reward for the one who can safely bypass it and prove their worth to the Warmaster. Siaphas casually inclined his head, letting Zaraphiston know that his warning had been received and understood, before replying to the Despoiler.
“Who is to be the other envoy on this mission, Warmaster?”
Abaddon smiled thinly and gestured towards the crowd of courtiers. At his command, the crowd instantly parted, and a tall, muscular figure in brass and steel armour strode forward, blood and other fluids dripping from the jangling, hooked chains embedded into its flesh. It grinned a lipless grin, for much of the original flesh of its face was missing, replaced by a patchwork of dead skin taken from its battle victims, and growled in savage pleasure, raisin
g its inactivated chainaxe in salute to the figure on the throne.
“Hannibar of Barca,” the Warmaster said. “He will accompany you on this mission. It is my unalterable command that you both fulfil the separate roles I have intended for you.”
“Warmaster,” said Siaphas, bowing again as he pondered this new and most unwelcome twist to events. That there was a double meaning in what the Despoiler had said was obvious, but why, of all candidates, would Abaddon have selected the Beast of Barca for this mission? Hannibar was notorious, a mindless animal in human form, and one of the followers of that arch-maniac, Kharn the Betrayer.
Like Siaphas, the Khornate berserker champion had seriously fallen from the Warmaster’s favour. He and his legions had been ordered to attack and seize the Imperium mining world of Achilia, with the aim of enslaving its population and turning the outpost into a supply and refit point for the Despoiler’s warfleets. Instead, the berserker fool had allowed his troops to not only butcher the entire population but was further unable or unwilling to control them when, their bloodlust unfulfilled, they then fell upon and massacred those contingents of other Chaos troops which had supported them in the initial invasion.
The Warmaster was not slow to show his displeasure. The mines and workshops of Achilia were still manned with an army of slave workers, but it had been Hannibar’s own troops who had taken the place of the exterminated civilian population, while Hannibar himself had been banished to the remote fringes of the war where he might learn to tame the worst excesses of his Khornate bloodlust.
So, thought Siaphas, two pariahs, both now summoned back to the heart of the Warmaster’s power. It was surely no coincidence or show of unlikely clemency on the part of Abaddon that both of them had been selected for this mission, and Siaphas remembered Zaraphiston’s warning of a hidden trap. He warily eyed the glowering figure of Hannibar, who, if his mind wasn’t empty of all but the usual tedious Khornate blood-frenzy, was no doubt making similar calculations of his own. Which one of them was the trap for? One, or both? What was the Warmaster’s hidden purpose in putting the two of them together like this? Siaphas decided that more information was urgently needed.
[Battlefleet Gothic 02] - Shadow Point Page 3
