by Rob Sanders
As she brushed past Czevak, she whispered, ‘Nice coat.’
‘Belphoebe, what is going on?’ the inquisitor demanded as the eldar ranger pulled back her hood. ‘I’m here to do business.’
The ranger’s face was plain for an eldar, enhanced a little by the precious stones embedded in her teeth and the rune-inks swirling off her cheeks and up around her eyes. Eyes that blazed with a rage, the depths of which emotionally stunted humans would never know.
‘Business,’ she repeated, savouring the word. ‘It was foolish of you to return, Czevak – yet knowing you as I do – I suppose it was inevitable.’
‘Again, please,’ the inquisitor put to her, bemused.
‘You’re back for those damned pages. I had my men extract the middle sections from each of your heretical tomes – a little insurance if you will – just in case you crossed me.’
Czevak looked to Klute, who was returning a stabbing glare – clearly upset that the High Inquisitor had walked them into unannounced hostilities. Czevak gave his former interrogator a gentle shrug of the shoulders to indicate that he had no idea what the eldar ranger was talking about.
‘Belphoebe…’
‘Don’t,’ the eldar warned. ‘My ears still drip with the poison of your last set of lies.’
‘What lies? I was here–’
The ranger erupted, a stream of sibilance pouring forth from her mouth in passionate mother tongue. She finally calmed and glared accusingly at Czevak. ‘You were here one week ago. You took those texts without payment and now you’re back for the missing pages – as the extra muscle you’ve brought testifies. Well, the price has gone up since you’ve been away, inquisitor. This time it could cost you your life. Now, give me what you owe me, you double dealing mon-keigh.’
‘I’m going to reach into my coat now,’ Czevak informed the Pathfinder, loudly enough to reach the ears of the hidden rangers. ‘As I do, let me tell you that one week ago I was in the Arx Gap with Morton Klortho.’
‘And how is Morton?’
‘Morton’s dead.’
‘Convenient.’
‘I swear, by Iyanden’s mighty fallen, I wasn’t here and I have no knowledge of the books or pages you talk of.’
When his hand cautiously reappeared it was holding a clutch of chains, attached to a jangling collection a rune-inscribed spirit stones. Belphoebe froze. These were not the tears of crystallised warp essence that she collected for the Iyanden, to fix to their armour and secure their souls. These spirit stones contained souls already.
‘These – among other things – are what Morton gave his life for,’ Czevak informed her solemnly. He tossed her the collection of precious stones. ‘Consider whatever debt you believe I owe you repaid in full – and then some.’
‘Prince Evaelor…’ the Pathfinder marvelled.
‘And friends,’ Czevak added, but the jest was lost on the eldar. ‘My researches revealed that Evaelor and his Spectre Companies lost their struggle against Umbragg of the Brazen Flesh and the Rage Lords of Taurm. Morton and I found these around the neck of a daemonette on Oligula Tertius. I recognised the markings immediately. She didn’t want to give them up.’
‘Prince Evaelor – Iyanden’s Lost Autarch.’
Czevak nodded.
‘Well, what was lost is now found. You can take him home. Now, if you would be so good as to stand down your rangers then we might be able to get to the bottom of this misunderstanding.’ Czevak’s voice softened, ‘Una, I tell you, I was not here a week ago.’
Belphoebe could barely tear her eyes from the priceless artefacts hanging from her gloved hand. When she did, they were full of thought and conflict. Finally she whispered something into a commmunications device in her native language and the beams cutting their way across the darkness of the tabernacle died in unison. A sag of relief swept through Czevak and his retinue.
‘Against the better judgement of my ancestors, I believe you. But somehow you were here. You forfeited payment, posed threat to my blood and stole from me and mine. Explain that to me, good inquisitor,’ Belphoebe challenged.
‘It might help if you told me specifically what “I” did. What of these pages?’
Rangers – solemn and silent – slipped into the back of the tent behind their Pathfinder. Their camouflaged coat-cloaks were works of art, abstract and entrancing; their smooth helmets were scope-adorned and the silky lengths of their long rifles slung. Long rifles which moments before had been pointed at Czevak and his people at impossible angles through the tattered canvas of the tabernacle.
‘You were alone, as usual. You demanded the Vycharis sarcophocrate for reduced payment in sterling adamantium ingots.’
‘Vycharis? So the Skeptoclast is here?’ Czevak said.
‘Pieces of it have been surfacing for the past couple of months, including cargo,’ Belphoebe confirmed.
‘Excuse me,’ Klute interrupted. ‘The Skeptoclast?’
‘A Reliquary vessel fleeing Imperial forces during the failed Vycharis Skeptoclasm.’ Czevak informed him. ‘It carried the Dark Cardinal’s arch-archivist and the palace’s extensive collection of heretical tomes and forbidden documents – Cardinal Vycharis undoubtedly hoped to bribe his unholy allies into coming to his aid in the final stages of the failed six-system heresy. The Skeptoclast disappeared, however, in the violent warp storms that had plagued the subsector. The Black Library places the craft in the Eye of Terror after that and Henslowe’s Astra Incogna suggests that it crash landed on Arach-Cyn.’
Czevak returned his gaze to Belphoebe. ‘And he – I – looked just like me?’
‘Different clothes; your manner though. Insistent. Aggressive. I doubted you would even pay the ingots you promised for the sarcophocrate and so I had my rangers tear out the middle section of each text as insurance. To force you to return and settle accounts. When I saw you’d brought a member of the Adeptus Astartes, I assumed you had come for more than the pages.’
‘Your life,’ Czevak said, echoing the Pathfinder’s words from earlier. ‘But Una – this doesn’t sound like me. Weren’t you suspicious?’
‘Very – but you were standing as far from me as you are now. Bronislaw Czevak, as I live and as I breathe,’ Belphoebe said.
Czevak and Klute’s eyes met.
‘The Thousand Sons,’ the inquisitors said together, nodding.
‘Sorcery and illusions are their way,’ Czevak continued. ‘It was probably that fiend Xarchos. He would have had plenty of time to perfect his chimeric representations.’
‘That was someone pretending to be you?’ the eldar Pathfinder said.
‘Looks that way,’ Czevak agreed, ‘if you’ll excuse the pun.’
‘So, this imposter took the sarcophocrate?’ Klute put to Belphoebe.
‘No,’ the ranger said. ‘He rifled it, took two of the texts, resealed it and left – as I suspected – without payment.’
‘You still have the crate?’ Czevak said with some surprise.
Belphoebe smiled and lifted the jangling spirit stones, ‘Czevak, it’s yours.’
The Pathfinder led Czevak and his retinue out of the tabernacle, followed by her rangers, and into the maze of archeostalls and tents. Her path led them along the bank, where the bloody earth churned up against the shoreline of more stable land. Klute watched, entranced, as bones, coins and shattered masonry bubbled to the surface as well as several larger items: half an arch, a wraithbone stabiliser fin, a smeared firing prism.
Here Belphoebe greeted another of her rangers, who was sitting at the entrance to a marquee that was sheltering Belphoebe’s reclamation purchases. The tent was packed to the canvas roof with crates and bundles, wraithbone technology and chests of spirit stones. The Pathfinder led Czevak and his people in. While Epiphani and Hessian looked decidedly bored, Brother Torqhuil examined the exotic pieces around the marquee with interest. The ranger on the door kept a careful eye on the armoured hulk to make sure he didn’t steal anything. Belphoebe went straight to a fil
th-encrusted sarcophocrate in the centre of the tent that stood upright and was taller than the Pathfinder. The markings were Imperial, the seals ancient and the casing rusty and pitted.
Czevak looked to Klute and then rubbed his palms together.
‘So this thing’s full of heretical tomes?’ Klute asked.
‘The Dark Cardinal had an extensive library,’ Czevak answered with enthusiasm. ‘Let’s get this sarcophocrate open.’
He was about to proceed to the seals when something strange happened. A deep glow built from within the sarcophocrate, blazing an azure radiance that bled from every rust hole and warped seal. Light in the darkness.
‘Belphoebe?’ Czevak managed, suspecting a double-cross.
‘Not mine,’ the eldar ranger confirmed fearfully.
The metal door of the crate blossomed with frag as bursts of bolt-rounds exploded from inside. An explosive volley caught Czevak in the side, tearing up the exotic material of his Harlequin coat and punching the inquisitor through a stack of Belphoebe’s crates and bundles.
‘Czevak!’ Klute bawled as his master was brutally felled.
The door of the sarcophocrate was slammed to the floor as the goliath inside stepped out. Its Iron-pattern power armour was pure, cerulean beauty and its helmet a nest of Coptic ornament. The suit shoulder plate bore the mark of the Thousand Sons – the eternal image of a serpent eating its own tail, and in its gauntlets it clutched a smoking bolter.
‘Rubric Marine,’ Brother Torqhuil spat through clenched teeth. The Rubric Marines were victims of the most powerful of the sorcerer Ahriman’s spells and enchantments. The bodies of his Space Marines had been turned to ash and dust, their obedient souls sealed inside their armour for all eternity. Unquestioning, unbreakable, unstoppable.
‘Destroy it!’ Klute commanded, running to his master’s aid.
The Techmarine’s servo-arms and mechadendrites flicked out with sharp and sudden hostility. The Rubric Marine began an indefatigable march from the sarcophocrate, moving like a mindless automaton. Torqhuil stormed at the Chaos Marine but found that despite its monotonous movements the thing had searing reactions and laid down a withering arc of fire. This forced the Relictor to sidestep and take cover behind a recovered wraithbone pillar.
A rainbow of sights beamed through the smoke pouring from the barrel of the Rubric Marine’s relentless weapon. The Chaos Space Marine halted momentarily to look at the colourful dots as they moved frantically across its armour. All remained weak, however, displaying none of the intensity they displayed while zeroing in on the vulnerabilities of Czevak and his henchmen. It seemed that the walking suit of armour had no such vulnerabilities. The marquee became a lightshow of blasts and sparks as Belphoebe’s rangers lanced the monstrous thing with sniper fire. Las-bolts slashed off the Rubric Marine’s chest and helmet with futile precision and coordination. It half stumbled for a moment under the barrage but recovered and stomped on through the las storm, returning deadly fire.
As the blasts lessened, the blue colossus went through the perfunctory motions of a reload. Torqhuil came out from behind the pillar with both gauntlets wrapped around the grip of his bolt pistol. He hammered several rounds at the Rubric Marine, each flashing off the curvature of the ancient armour. Hessian suddenly appeared beside the Chaos Marine from behind a stack of crates and latched himself onto the Thousand Sons Space Marine’s weapon. The two fought for ownership of the bulky, archaic bolter, the strength of both monstrosities coming from some unearthly place. Both attempted to shift the weapon but came up against the immovable hold of the other. The Rubric Marine’s helmet angled slightly in what might have been confusion. Hessian’s lip curled, ruining the comely lines of his face and the letters under his skin seared the flesh from beneath, sizzling and smoking. The daemonhost head-butted the Chaos Space Marine in the grille plate with his horn buds, knocking the monster’s head back. The Rubric Marine held onto the bolter with one determined fist, however, and with the other gauntlet – still wrapped around a replacement magazine – smashed the daemonhost to the floor with one pneumatic strike.
By the time Torqhuil came at him from the other side the Traitor Marine had slammed the clip home and blasted the bolter – close range – at the Relictor. Torqhuil battered the weapon aside with a swing of his servo-arm, sending the bolter wide and blazing into Belphoebe’s rangers as they attempted to enter the marquee and snatch their leader to safety. The Rubric Marine held onto the weapon, despite the force of the blow and it took a backslash from the Techmarine’s clawed servo-arm to knock the bolter from the Chaotic’s grasp. One of Torqhuil’s other bionic attachments found its way into his enemy’s grip, however, and the Rubric Marine span around its considerable centre of gravity and propelled an off-balance Torqhuil through a forest of crates and cargo containers.
As the Chaos Marine bent down to retrieve its bolter, Epiphani walked for the marquee entrance. The Spook-induced smirk had been wiped from her face by the dramatic turn of events and the young woman found herself at the mercy of timing. With her palm on Father, the warp-seer allowed the servo-skull to lead her from the fray, casually plucking a stiletto blade from her boot – an outfit accessory – and slicing through a collection of marquee support lines.
As the tent collapsed over the Rubric Marine and its search, Klute crawled through the exposed path of destruction that Czevak had carved as the Chaos Marine’s bolter fire had in turn carved through him. Heart in his mouth, the inquisitor reached his unconscious master, Czevak’s body limp and akimbo across Belphoebe’s destroyed collection.
Mercifully, Klute found a carotid pulse and moved swiftly on to exploring the site of the wound. Czevak was suddenly back with him, the High Inquisitor sucking in a gulp of air. He spasmed and grabbed out at Klute.
‘Son of a–’
‘Sir! Thank the God-Emperor. Czevak!’ Klute screamed at the inquisitor, desperate to keep him still. ‘Don’t move. I need to find the point of entry.’
Breathless, Czevak continued to squirm, feeling inside the plucked material of his Harlequin coat and extracting the burnished, unblemished cover of the Atlas Infernal. The armoured surface of the text had absorbed the wrath of the barrage. Klute slumped into thankfulness and shook his head. Finally getting air to his lungs, the High Inquisitor seemed more concerned about potential damage to the Atlas than his own wellbeing. That was until inhalation brought a dull agony from his side.
‘Hurts like hell,’ Czevak hissed through his teeth.
‘When you were shot, the force of the impact drove the tome into your ribs – probably broke a couple.’
A stream of bolter shot screamed skyward, cutting a slit through the collapsed canvas. The Rubric Marine was suddenly out of the tent and striding with inevitability towards the two inquisitors.
‘Klute!’ Epiphani called.
‘Get back!’ Klute called, slipping the Cadian street silencer from the folds of his robes and working the
pistol’s lever action.
‘No,’ Czevak grimaced through his pain and grasped the inside of Klute’s elbow. The inquisitor shrugged him off and turned.
‘Go,’ Klute said softly before unleashing the roar of silver and Saint Vesta’s salts on the Rubric Marine. With blessed scatter shot hailing at the impassive force advancing towards him, Klute watched as the repeated blasts sparked, sizzled and spat off the surface of the Rubric Marine’s unholy armour. ‘Go!’ Klute howled at his master who lay transfixed by the approaching Rubric Marine.
Czevak narrowed his eyes, searching both his mind and his surroundings for possibilities. Belphoebe had been snatched away by her rangers and his retinue were smashed. Snarling through the stabbing throb of broken ribs, Czevak slipped the Atlas Infernal into his coat and rolled over. Crawling arm over arm across the collapsed canvas of the marquee, away from the Thousand Sons Space Marine, away from certain death, the High Inquisitor heard Klute’s shotgun run dry. Craning his neck, Czevak saw the Rubric Marine batter the inquisitor mindless
ly aside with the sweep of one ceramite arm. Czevak knew what was coming next. He willed it on.
‘Come on, you abomination,’ he called, daring the Rubric Marine to follow him. Czevak felt the extra weight on the canvas as it shifted slightly under him, the power-armoured figure’s heavy steps coming up behind. Arm over arm he clambered, with pain cutting through his broken side. He turned over, kicking away from his assassin across the undulating material.
‘Come on!’ Czevak roared at the Chaos Marine.
The Space Marine trudged on across the material, grasping the grip of its weapon and turning it on the inquisitor.
‘Come on!’
Two more steps.
Czevak felt a sudden tug on the canvas. As the Rubric Marine stepped off the tent-covered shore, it sank. The heft of its bulky armour went well beyond the weight distributing effect of the material and the Chaos Marine plunged into the churning ocean of regurgitating blood and earth below. Czevak would have whooped in triumphant delight but the sinking Space Marine was still bagged in canvas; the further it sank, the closer the inquisitor was dragged towards the monstrosity on the gathering material. The traitor had dropped its weapon in favour of spreading its arms and slowing its descent. As Czevak slid ever closer the thing reached out for him. The inquisitor was sure that the Rubric Marine intended to drag him down to the daemon world depths with it.
Twisting and squirming in hot agony, with broken ribs grating in his chest, Czevak crawled across the moving canvas and bubbling ground beneath, out of the Rubric Marine’s grasp and up onto the stable bank. The material slipped out from under him, rolling the inquisitor once more onto his back. He watched the Rubric Marine’s snatching gauntlet disappear beneath the blood-black, earthen waves, followed by a torn length of marquee canvas.
As the excruciating pain in his ribs pushed him towards unconsciousness again, like the advancing tide of a sea of darkness, he saw Epiphani and Father at Klute’s motionless side. Torqhuil was making his way out of the wreckage of reclaimed artefacts, followed by a dazed Hessian. The blasted bodies of bolt-felled rangers littered the ground and a crowd of degenerates and visitors to the archeomarket had gathered in the gaps between the tents and stalls to witness the spectacle.
