“Something Drake said,” Horst replied, the reason for his disquiet becoming clearer to him as he spoke.
Malakai looked puzzled. “Who’s Drake?” he asked.
“One of the Guardsmen who helped us,” Elyra explained. She glanced down the table at Horst, evidently following his line of reasoning. “He said he’d seen one of the raiders calling individual psykers out of the crowd.”
“Exactly,” Horst said, “which implies they were after witches with some specific talent.”
“Or just the most powerful ones,” Elyra said. Both of them glanced at the inquisitor.
“Neither is a particularly comforting proposition,” Finurbi said, after a moment’s pause.
“If they’ve been taken off world, they could be anywhere,” Keira offered helpfully. “There are so many ore barges in orbit we could never search them all.”
“Assuming they’re even still in the system,” the inquisitor said. “It’s far more likely their ship made the transit to the warp hours ago.” He sighed, and smiled ruefully at Elyra. “Is it just me, or are things getting infernally complicated again?”
“How much longer are we going to be kept hanging around here?” Kyrlock asked. At first he’d simply been relieved to be inside, out of the cold, but now the waiting was beginning to get to him. The civilians he and Drake had escorted in, an inquisitor’s warband no less, had vanished almost at once, hurrying away on whatever business had brought them here in the first place, leaving him and Danuld in the company of the red-uniformed soldiers who had followed them into the building. Belatedly remembering that he was talking to a real warrior, not some quota-filling halfwit like the late and unlamented Sergeant Claren, he made an effort to moderate his tone, and added, “Corporal. Sir.”
“No idea,” the man said indifferently, turning away, his body language eloquently proclaiming that he cared even less. Used to this sort of dismissive attitude from practically everyone he came into contact with, like any Secundan serf, it never occurred to Kyrlock to resent it. He simply shrugged, and returned to the bunk he’d been assigned.
“Told you,” Drake said idly from the next one. He glanced around the barrack room. “He probably doesn’t know any more than we do in any case.”
“So far as I’m concerned, they can leave us here till the Emperor steps down from the throne,” the man on the other side of Kyrlock agreed, referring to a widely-held superstition about the turn of the millennium, now less than a decade away. Kyrlock recognised him vaguely, although he couldn’t put a name to him. “Good food, a warm bed, beats roughing it out in the snow.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Drake said cynically, more versed in the ways of the military than the average conscript. He indicated the names still stencilled on the footlockers, and the faint flecks of adhesive still clinging to the walls around the beds where picts and printsheet clippings had been hastily removed. These are dead men’s bunks. “What do you want to bet we’ll be picking up where they left off?”
“Doing what?” Kyrlock asked, and Drake shrugged.
“Haven’t a clue,” he said. Then he grinned. “Cheer up, Vos. It can’t be any worse than what we went through last night.”
Kyrlock was less than convinced about that, but had no opportunity to argue the point. Before he could open his mouth, the corporal in red and grey was back, two of his subordinates at his shoulders.
“Fall in!” he bellowed. Recognising the tone of an NCO who wasn’t to be trifled with, Drake was out of his bunk and standing at attention faster than Kyrlock would have believed possible. Taking his lead from his friend, as he’d been doing since they’d met in basic training, Kyrlock jumped up too, stepping into line a moment later. The rest of the troopers followed as quickly as they could, scrambling into some semblance of order, though not fast enough for the corporal, who kicked the legs out from under a couple of the most tardy, dropping them heavily to the floor. “Right, you maggots, you’ve been reassigned. As of this moment you are no longer soldiers of the Imperial Guard.”
A disbelieving murmur swept through the ranks, and the corporal glared. Kyrlock felt the hairs on the back of his neck stirring. The NCO paced down the line, and looked him straight in the eyes. Kyrlock tried to keep his face impassive, and not even blink. “Did you say something?”
“No, corporal.” A flat, declarative statement.
After a moment, the man took a step back, and transferred his attention to Drake. “How about you?”
“No, corporal.”
“No, I don’t believe you did. You two fall out. The rest of you, down and twenty.” The corporal waited while Drake and Kyrlock stepped out of line, and the rest of the dozen or so survivors of their original platoon puffed their way through the press-ups. As they finished, and clambered sheepishly to their feet, the NCO looked at them as though he’d just made an unwelcome discovery on the sole of his boot. “As I was saying before the debating club convened, you are hereby reassigned to the service of His Imperial Majesty’s most holy Inquisition. By His grace, it seems, you’ve survived where none of you should have done, which means you’ve either been blessed by His special favour, have an exceptional degree of fortitude, or are just plain lucky.” He indicated the door. “Your training for the exalted calling of Inquisitorial storm trooper, which frankly I don’t think any of you are fit for, begins now.” He indicated the two troopers with him, who turned and ran out of the door. “With them, at the double. If you can’t keep up I’ll shoot you.”
After a moment of stunned silence, the assembled Guardsmen sprinted for the door, elbowing each other aside in their eagerness to get through the narrow gap. The corporal watched them struggle for a moment, and then turned back to Kyrlock and Drake, who hadn’t moved. “Think I’m joking, do you?” he asked.
Drake shook his head. “Waiting for the door to clear, corporal. We’ll catch up soon enough. Overtake most of them if it’s a long run, only a few have enough sense to pace themselves.”
“I see.” The corporal nodded slowly, turning to Kyrlock. “And you?”
Kyrlock shrugged, out of his depth but determined not to show it. “What he said, corporal.”
“I see.” For a moment, a trace of amusement seemed to flicker across the man’s face. “The two of you might actually make the grade, but you’ve got other orders.”
“What orders?” Kylock asked.
The corporal smiled wryly. “You think they tell me? All I know is you’re to go with him.” He indicated the barrack-room door, through which the last of the Guardsmen had just vanished. A man was standing there, grey-robed and magisterial. “Inquisitor.” The corporal inclined his head.
“Vos and Danuld, isn’t it?” Inquisitor Finurbi smiled in an open, friendly manner which completely failed to reassure Kyrlock. “I believe you may be in a position to help me.”
Secure in its hiding place, the intruder stirred restlessly. The attack had gone well, exactly according to plan, and it had always been prepared for the investigation that was bound to follow. Its position within the facility, unseen and unsuspected, would have allowed it to mislead and misdirect the enquiry, diverting suspicion, perhaps even evading detection altogether.
However, something had changed. The inquisitor was here, the dampers were down, and bringing them back on line would prompt too many questions. The fires of the man’s talent were flickering, eroded by exhaustion, but remained a potent threat. If it could sense them, the intruder thought, then perhaps the reverse was true, and the inquisitor could sense its presence too, or might be able to when he recovered.
This was an unexpected development, and one it would have to assess very carefully before taking steps to neutralise the danger.
“With respect, sir, I don’t really see how you expect us to help you,” Drake said. Judging by the expressions on the faces ranged around the room, it was an opinion shared by most of the inquisitor’s associates. At least he could put names to them now. Belated introductions had accompanied a m
eal unlike anything he or Kyrlock had ever experienced before: pulses baked in a thick, rich sauce, and served on thin slices of lightly charred bread.
The room, too, was unlike any he’d previously been in. It was well appointed, there was no doubt about that, but panelled in dark, glossy wood instead of the glass he’d been surrounded by in the palaces of Icenholm. The padded seats were familiar enough, but were covered in plain fabrics, all in shades of red and grey, and a scarlet carpet covered the floor.
Clearly, the royal colour was far less exclusive off-world. Keira still wore the crimson bandana, and, to his vague disappointment, a tabard in the same shade of red now covered the body glove that had left so few of her charms to the imagination. The others were still dressed exactly as they had been the first time he’d seen them, but then he didn’t suppose much of their luggage would have survived the shuttle crash. What had happened to the pilot he didn’t know, there was certainly no sign of him in the strange, un-Secundan room.
“You both saw a great deal of the action,” the inquisitor explained, steepling his fingers and leaning back in his chair. His feet were propped up on a large hassock, and it looked to Drake as if he was half asleep, but the eyes behind the half-closed lids were alert enough, and he knew better than to underestimate the man. “More than any of your comrades. You might still be harbouring information we can use, even if the nature of it isn’t exactly clear yet.”
“I see.” Drake nodded, not really getting it, but damned if he’d admit the fact in front of the others.
They obviously thought he was thicker than spoil silt, good for nothing beyond toting a lasgun and dying for the Emperor on some far distant battlefield.
“I’m not sure you do,” Horst said, glancing up from a data-slate in his lap, and Drake tried not to let the flare of resentment he felt show on his face. He was evidently less successful than he’d hoped in this, because Keira suddenly grinned at him in an unexpectedly friendly fashion.
“Don’t let that tone of Mordechai’s get under your skin,” she advised. “He used to be an arbitrator. They teach smug and patronising in basic training.”
“Says the self-appointed hand of the Emperor’s judgement,” Horst riposted dryly. “No inflated ego there, then.” He glanced at the tiny pict screen, and then back up at Drake. “Your personal histories make interesting reading.”
“They do? How?” Drake asked, already wondering what else these lunatics had in mind for him and Kyrlock. If half the whispered stories about the Inquisition were true, it was probably nothing good. On the other hand, they all seemed cheerful enough, and the inquisitor was far more friendly than he would have expected. Somehow, though, that was even more disquieting, as if they were being lulled into a false sense of security.
“Danuld Drake,” Horst read aloud, before glancing up again, “former PDF regular, good record, two commendations. Requested a transfer to the Imperial Guard tithing. That’s unusual.”
“I had my reasons,” Drake said. There seemed little point in going into his dissatisfaction with the Royal Scourges, and the snobbery and hypocrisy that had hindered his progress up through the ranks.
Horst nodded appraisingly. “Reading between the lines, you think for yourself rather too much for a military man. Do you think that’s a fair assessment?”
“Speaking purely as a military man, I wouldn’t be in a position to comment, sir.” Drake had only intended to stonewall, a tactic that had worked well with irate superiors before, but, to his surprise, Horst seemed pleased with the answer, nodding as he paged through the slate.
“And Vos Kyrlock.” He looked across at the redheaded man next to Drake.
“That’s me,” Kyrlock confirmed, giving away no more than he had to, like any Secundan serf coming to the attention of a social superior.
Horst read a few more lines. “You seem unusually inclined to think for yourself too: evading tithes, black marketeering. That’s almost tantamount to treason on this benighted rock.”
“I’m no traitor.” A low rumble of anger accompanied the words, and Kyrlock’s fists balled. Drake tensed. He’d heard this tone several times, usually just before a brawl broke out. Vos’ volcanic temper, quick to erupt, and just as quick to die down, was the main reason he’d had so few friends among the regiment. He laid a restraining hand on Kyrlock’s arm, pressing him back into his seat, but the forester shook him off. “And anyone who says I am had better like sanitorium food.”
Horst didn’t look worried, Drake realised, something that brought him very little comfort. The dark-haired man was simply looking at Kyrlock with curiosity, mixed with a little amusement, and the Guardsman felt a chill in the pit of his stomach. These people were Inquisitorial agents; no matter how strange he found them, they were undoubtedly dangerous.
“Horrible stuff,” Horst agreed, without moving. “And for the record, I made no such insinuation. If anyone here believed that, we’d hardly be considering making use of you, would we?”
“Well, no, I suppose not.” Clearly confused, Kyrlock checked the movement, and, to Drake’s relief, resumed his seat.
“Let’s get this straight,” Drake said, turning to look at the inquisitor, “you’re asking Vos and me to work for the Inquisition?” He could hardly keep a note of incredulity from his voice, although whether that was the result of the idea itself, or his temerity in daring to address so exalted a servant of the Imperium directly, he couldn’t have said. To his even greater astonishment, the man smiled.
“In a manner of speaking. Like many of my colleagues, I employ a number of operatives to help me in my work. One of those teams is with me now.” He nodded at Horst and Keira. “It’s my opinion, backed up by an exceptionally positive casting of the Emperor’s Tarot, that your local knowledge may be useful in our current investigation. If you survive the experience, and manage to impress us sufficiently with your dedication and loyalty in the process, I may continue to employ you after our business here is concluded, or, if you prefer, you may return to the ranks of the storm troopers.”
“We’ll help in any way we can,” Drake said, still trying to grasp the full magnitude of what he was hearing. Realistically, he knew, there was no other answer he could possibly make. Brought up to regard service as both a right and a duty, refusal simply didn’t occur to him. He nudged the man next to him with his elbow. “Right, Vos?”
“Right.” Kyrlock nodded too, his eyes unreadable.
“Good. I’m glad that’s settled.” The inquisitor stood, slowly, and once again Drake found himself thinking that the man was overcoming his exhaustion by willpower alone. He glanced at Horst. “Then I’ll leave you in Mordechai’s capable hands.”
“Very good, inquisitor,” Horst said, looking to Drake distinctly unenthusiastic about the prospect. He glanced at the two Guardsmen. “First thing we’d better do is assign you some quarters.”
“Speaking of which,” the inquisitor said, starting for the door, “if anyone needs me, you’ll find me in mine. Try not to disturb me unless it’s really urgent.”
“Oh, there you are.” Elyra bustled into the room, smiling in relief as she caught sight of him. “Captain Malakai thought you should be informed at once. You’ve just had a message, relayed from Icenholm.”
“What sort of a message?” the inquisitor asked, and Drake thought he could detect a note of resignation in the man’s voice. To his vague surprise, it was accompanied by a pang of sympathy. “I take it this can’t wait until the morning?”
“It’s from the Tricorn,” Elyra said.
Drake’s puzzlement must have shown on his face, because Keira condescended to explain. “The Ordo Calixis headquarters on Scintilla,” she told him, her whispered voice suddenly coming from somewhere close to his ear. Not having noticed her move, he gave an involuntary start, which seemed to amuse her. “They coordinate Inquisition activity throughout the sector.”
“Thanks,” he murmured back.
Elyra was still speaking. “They’ve received a
n astropathic communication for you, from outside the sector, from an Inquisitor Grynner, of the Ordo Xenos. He won’t tell anyone else what it’s about.”
“That sounds like Jorge,” Inquisitor Finurbi said. “Never trusts anyone he doesn’t know.” He sighed. “I’ll have to return to Icenholm, and get hold of an astropath. If Malakai can find me a shuttle around here that still flies, young Barda can take me.” A jaw cracking yawn forced its way past his defences. “Most intriguing. Why would Jorge need the help of a witch hunter?”
“For the same reason you could use a specialist in xenos tech?” Horst suggested. “Maybe he’s got hold of another thread of the same conspiracy.”
“Perhaps.” The inquisitor yawned again, and smiled at Elyra. “Could I impose on you to make the arrangements?”
“Of course.” She looked at him, concern evident on her face. “But you really should rest first.”
“I’m going to,” he assured her. “Wake me as soon as the shuttle’s ready.”
“I will.” The blonde woman smiled tolerantly. “Now go and lie down before you fall down.”
The intruder had come to a decision. One way or another, the inquisitor had to die, now, while he was still vulnerable, before his strength returned. Tearing itself free of its hiding place, it prepared to strike.
SEVEN
The Citadel of the Forsaken, Sepheris Secundus
090.993.M41
Night had long since fallen across the bleak tundra surrounding the citadel, only a few faint stars flaring briefly into visibility through the occasional rent in the glowering clouds before being occulted again by their insubstantial bulk, but Vex remained indifferent to the passage of time. The vital regulator built into his augmetically enhanced body allowed him to go without sleep for periods even the hardiest of men unblessed by such gifts could never have endured. Indeed, the very thought of rest, if it even occurred to him, would have been repugnant right now. Not only was it his duty as one of the Omnissiah’s anointed to restore harmony to the violated systems of the fortress as quickly as possible, the intellectual challenge of working out how the damage had been inflicted was a fascinating one.
[Warhammer 40K] - Scourge the Heretic Page 10
