Tyrant of the Hollow Worlds

by Mark Clapham

  Verbin nodded with a grunt, stepped down to where the broken man lay, and stamped on his chest, killing him instantly.

  The impact of Verbin’s stamp damaged more than the dying mortal – the slab the mortal had been lying on broke in two, and both Verbin and the corpse disappeared into a hole in a shower of dust.

  ‘Now that’s my idea of a miracle,’ said Malinko.

  Rotaka was about to tell Malinko to hold his tongue when Verbin’s voice came from the hole. ‘I’ve found it!’ It appeared he hadn’t fallen far.

  ‘Stay there,’ said Rotaka, then he turned to Malinko, Wuhrsk and Hulpin. ‘Keep clearing. I’ll fetch Valthex.’

  There were low grumbles of protest but Rotaka ignored them as he walked away, his boots sinking into the scree as he climbed a hill of rubble. They had reason to complain – they were Space Marines, Red Corsairs, doing the work of slaves and servitors. But while Huron Blackheart’s army deployed from the Pit, he had ordered his Corsairs to search the debris for possible sources of intelligence.

  And so the Corsairs picked through the wreckage. If it was demeaning, then Lord Huron had the right to demean them. They were merely an extension of his will.

  From the top of the hill, Rotaka could see the whole island. The first slaves to be brought through to the surface were clearing the area around the pit, hundreds of humans toiling beneath the artificial sun to make way for Huron’s army, to create an open area for Huron to marshal his vehicles.

  Those vehicles had begun to emerge: Rhinos, Predators, Vindicators, Defilers… even a flat-bedded transport carrying a colossal, chained and secured box from which periodic crashes could be heard. Countless vehicles lined up away from the Pit, which was now exposed to the air, a giant hole in the centre of the island, and in the very skin of the world.

  Cranes salvaged from the rubble leaned over the Pit, creaking with strain as they pulled gigantic chains, slowly hauling something huge out of the Pit.

  Remembering his mission, Rotaka tore his eyes away from the spectacle and looked out across the island. He could see pockets of Red Corsairs searching the wreckage, others duelling or shooting targets, but no Valthex.

  Rotaka had kept Iltz inactive, tied within a bag of cured skin strapped to the back of his armour. He loosened the crude strings that held the bag together, and pulled out the servo-skull. It floated into the air, its shroud of blue flame emerging but barely visible in the sunlight.

  ‘Find Valthex,’ Rotaka said. ‘Give him my coordinates.’

  As Iltz drifted away Rotaka returned his attention to the Pit. The chains and cranes were nearly done, their burden emerging. The first of Huron Blackheart’s galleons, the Unyielding Fist, rolled out onto the surface of Laghast.

  Each had once been a Capitol Imperialis, but centuries in the Maelstrom had changed their form so that only a rough outline of the vehicle’s original shape could be seen. The first to emerge occupied almost the whole diameter of the shaft, its rough-hewn tracked wheels clawing up the walls of the pit. When it reached the top, as well as the cranes, armies of slaves used their chains to pull the galleon from the hole.

  When the galleon emerged, it continued to roll, crushing the massed wreckage of broken and burning buildings under its great tracks. Rotaka looked at the malevolent machine, a towering ship of blackest metal, the spectres of lost souls briefly visible in the ooze that slicked its sides. Barnacled portholes looked out from its sides, while a gigantic skull stared from its prow.

  It was an ancient, mutated thing, a machine of war that had become something not quite alive and not quite dead. In the bright sunlight of Laghast, it seemed to drink the light into its own impenetrable darkness, squatting like a malevolent presence.

  He was very glad that these vehicles were on his side.

  ‘Rotaka,’ said Techmarine Valthex, breaking his chain of thought. ‘You wanted me?’

  ‘This way,’ said Rotaka, leading the Techmarine down to the hole. Iltz resumed floating a short distance behind Rotaka, drifting along at shoulder level.

  Hulpin, Malinko and Wuhrsk had cleared the rest of the shattered ceiling away, giving easier access to the room below.

  Valthex dropped down into the chamber to inspect what Verbin had found, what Rotaka’s squad had been assigned to find: a row of intact, albeit powerless, communications cogitators.

  ‘Yes,’ said Valthex, brushing a scattering of dust and shrapnel from the top of one of the cogitators. ‘This is exactly what I need.’

  ‘Some of these rungs are loose,’ Pranix told Kretschman, who was climbing ahead of him. ‘Be careful, I can’t afford to lose that equipment.’

  It might have occurred to someone other than the inquisitor that Kretschman’s death might be a better incentive to take care than the loss of the equipment, but Kretschman was just glad of the warning, testing each rung before putting any weight on it. The equipment in the bag on his back made him heavier than usual, and his limbs ached as he climbed.

  The ladder was attached to the side of a communications tower at the edge of Eridano. Colonel Ruthger had shown a flash of reluctance to secure a comms tower on the edge of the city while many more obviously strategic locations were yet to be taken back from the mob, especially as the comms were still corrupted.

  ‘The main comms system is corrupted,’ Pranix had said. ‘A sound tactical manoeuvre, to disrupt communications. Fortunately, alongside the Imperium’s conventional communication systems lies another, well-hidden network, considerably harder to access and disrupt. Get me to that comms tower and I can access it.’

  Before Ruthger had even resignedly agreed, Pranix had opened his mouth to make another request: ‘I’ll also need someone to carry heavy equipment.’

  Which was how Kretschman found himself climbing the comms tower. He paused to take a breath and looked out across the city: fires still burned in hab blocks, smoke rising from gutted buildings. The initial disruption seemed to have unleashed buried tensions in the city, cults and rebel groups forming everywhere, leaving the Jandarme and the Guard to retake the city block by block.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ shouted Pranix from above. ‘Not far now.’

  Kretschman resumed the climb, and shortly found himself stepping out onto a rusty platform with an equally rusty box in the centre.

  ‘Sergeant?’ Pranix indicated the box.

  Nodding, still breathless from the climb, Kretschman set down his pack, removed a long multitool from the side pocket and walked over to the box. A panel was fixed tightly to the front of the box, but there was enough space around the edges for Kretschman to get the end of the tool in there. A little levering and the panel fell away, revealing blinking equipment within.

  ‘Thank you, sergeant,’ said Pranix. ‘Once again you prove the ideal tool for the job.’

  Rotaka watched as Valthex restored power to the communications cogitator, then extruded connecting cables from the rig on his shoulders to the cogitator. ‘The scrapcode within the enemy’s comms system does not simply disrupt, it also filters and collects,’ Valthex said, tapping at runes on the cogitator.

  ‘Collects what?’ asked Malinko. Having been tasked to find this chunk of Imperial junk, Rotaka’s squad had gathered around to see what Valthex did with it.

  ‘Intelligence,’ said a voice from above; a long shadow cast over them all.

  ‘My lord,’ said Rotaka, kneeling and bowing his head. His squad did the same as Huron Blackheart dropped into the room with them with a crunch.

  ‘Troop movements, distress calls, evacuation orders,’ Huron said, ignoring Rotaka’s genuflection. He strode amongst them purposefully, his movements tight, suggesting the violence and rage that could be unleashed on his subordinates at any time. ‘Advance intelligence will hasten the crushing of my enemies. Rise.’

  Rotaka did so. He could feel the unease within his squad at being so close to the Blackhe
art in such a confined space. Huron’s presence eclipsed them all.

  Valthex had neither bowed nor responded to Huron, a suicidal action for most. Instead he remained in position by the cogitator, looking at data on the internal display of his helmet.

  ‘Valthex,’ said Huron, a note of warning not to disappoint in the way he spat the name. ‘What information do you have for me?’

  ‘There’s another presence in the communications system,’ said Valthex, distantly, still concentrating.

  ‘You promised me the Lastrati communications would be utterly disrupted, Valthex,’ said Huron, his voice low and dangerous.

  ‘They are,’ said Valthex, unfazed. ‘This isn’t the conventional communications network, which is still completely under the control of our scrapcode. This is another network, overlapping the one we have control of. Someone is using it to interrogate the system from outside.’

  ‘What network?’ shouted Huron. ‘Who would dare?’

  ‘The Inquisitorial monitoring sub-network,’ said Pranix, his face glowing in the green light from the screen of the equipment he had produced from Kretschman’s bag. ‘It usually filters relevant information and copies it to… Well, you don’t need to know, but I’m using it to dig into the corrupted network.’

  Kretschman didn’t know what Pranix was talking about, except that it seemed to mean the Inquisition were always watching, always listening. He pulled the collar of his uniform jacket up – this high up harsh winds battered the exposed platform they stood on, and as night began to fall those winds were getting colder.

  ‘Visual feeds,’ said Pranix after a minute or so of silent concentration. ‘Visual feeds from the Inner Dock, logged with a very recent timestamp.’

  He seemed barely aware of Kretschman’s presence now, talking to himself at the same speed as his fingers danced across the runes. Kretschman moved around the platform until he could see what was on screen, but all he could make out was a blur of motion and flashes of light.

  ‘Let’s clean this up and see who you are,’ said Pranix, and the image began to slowly resolve. It showed three bulky, armoured figures firing weapons and lashing out at members of the Jandarme. Kretschman flinched as one of the giants picked up a Jandarme by the throat and snapped his neck, tossing the body aside. Then the image whited out and returned to the start of the sequence, and this time Kretschman could clearly see what was going on – three armoured giants, painted with grotesque sigils and strewn with macabre totems, massacring human beings with bolters and fists.

  Pranix swore, an exceptionally filthy phrase in a lowly worker’s slang.

  ‘Traitor Marines,’ said Pranix. ‘Red Corsairs, judging by the markings on that armour.’

  The phrase chilled Kretschman to the core.

  ‘I’ve seen enough,’ said Pranix, pulling the cable connecting his equipment to the cogitator. The screen went blank.

  ‘Did you recognise those traitors, sergeant?’ Pranix asked, locking his eyes on Kretschman’s.

  ‘No, my lord,’ he replied.

  Pranix paused, watching Kretschman closely, before continuing. ‘I did not expect you to – the existence of Traitor Marines is forbidden knowledge. If you had recognised the Red Corsairs, sergeant, you would know that your regiment, and the forces of the Lastrati, have no chance of stopping them,’ said Pranix, hurriedly repacking his equipment into the bag and then throwing it at Kretschman. ‘A force will need to be summoned to drive them out, a strike force capable of dealing with traitors of this power.’

  ‘Summoned, my lord?’ asked Kretschman.

  ‘Summoned, in person,’ said Pranix. ‘Only an inquisitor has the authority to disrupt existing orders like this, and with the Astropathic Tower destroyed there is no chance of sending out a summons from within the Hollow Worlds. I will need to locate the nearest warzone and return in force.’

  ‘I need to get out of this system as fast as I can, sergeant,’ said the inquisitor.

  Rotaka watched Valthex clench and unclench his fist. This gesture of frustration was as close as he had ever seen the Techmarine come to displaying an emotion.

  ‘Gone,’ said Valthex. ‘They’ve gone. The connection has been broken before I could trace–’

  Whatever the Techmarine was about to say, it was cut off by an incredible roar of anger from Huron Blackheart, who swung around to knock over a half-fallen wall with the Tyrant’s Claw, chunks of masonry ricocheting in all directions.

  ‘I do not like uncertainties, Valthex,’ snarled Huron. ‘If there are parties at work here unaccounted for in my plans–’

  ‘This other network,’ said Valthex. ‘To outwit the scrapcode… Only someone – or an organisation – with the highest level of access could–’

  ‘The Inquisition!’ sneered Huron, saliva dripping down his chin as his face twisted with hatred. ‘An inquisitor in the Hollow Worlds could cause disruption. No matter, I will have this Imperial lapdog found and torn to pieces before he can cause difficulties. My conquest of these worlds will not falter.’

  Colonel Ruthger liked an ordered military existence. The presence of mysterious invaders and inquisitors disrupted this simplicity, so a representative of the Ecclesiarchy seeking an audience with him initially felt like the third of a bad trio. Nonetheless the Ecclesiarchy were a powerful ally, and it was not sensible to antagonise them, so Ruthger ordered Rothke to show this Brother Arashan into the briefing room that Ruthger had commandeered as his base of operations. Arashan was a tall, thin man with olive skin and a short, fiercely white beard. He gathered his robes around him as he came through the door.

  ‘Colonel Ruthger,’ said Arashan, his elaborate headdress teetering as he gave a slight bow. ‘It is fortunate we have a Cadian regiment on our world in such a troubling time. Order is already being reasserted on these streets, thanks to your enlightened leadership.’

  Ruthger returned the nod and uttered some formal pleasantries.

  ‘I come here not to represent my own order, but as a messenger,’ said Arashan. ‘The system governor has made contact.’

  Arashan explained the Ecclesiarchy’s corvids. Ruthger appreciated the ingenuity, and was unsurprised that the Ecclesiarchy should maintain a secret communication network of their own.

  ‘System Governor Cheng believes the enemy will wish to seize the Archway that allows transit between Laghast and Kerresh as soon as possible,’ Arashan said. ‘The most direct route requires the conquest of the coastal factorum city of Nulstrom, but without knowing the identity of these attackers–’

  ‘Traitor Marines of the Red Corsairs,’ said Inquisitor Pranix, walking into the room as if he had been part of the conversation all along.

  Pranix flashed his hololithic identification in Arashan’s direction and the priest gave the inquisitor a deep bow.

  ‘Is that even possible?’ asked Ruthger. Traitor Space Marines? Space Marines were demigods, the Emperor’s finest, the only warriors Cadians looked up to. How could any be traitors? It was unthinkable.

  ‘There are many heresies mankind is not equipped to know about,’ said Pranix. ‘Suffice to say this is a very grave threat.’

  ‘The system governor wishes to keep the Archway to Kerresh open a few more days, to allow evacuation,’ said Arashan. ‘Would you counsel that it be closed immediately, my lord inquisitor?’

  Pranix said nothing for half a minute.

  Ruthger and Arashan exchanged glances, but then the inquisitor spoke.

  ‘No,’ he said, finally. ‘We should take the chance to deny the enemy any further resources. Set up two lines of defence, at Nulstrom and around the Archway, make them fight for every step, but then withdraw your regiment, colonel, and prepare Kerresh for invasion. Huron Blackheart is master of the Red Corsairs – whether through sorcery or technology, he will break through to Kerresh eventually.’

  Ruthger licked his dry lips. Traitor M
arines, this Blackheart person and sorcery? His world was becoming further complicated by the second.

  ‘Will you give me your counsel, lord inquisitor?’ asked Ruthger.

  ‘Will I lead you, do you mean?’ asked Pranix bluntly. ‘No, I’m going elsewhere.’

  ‘To the inner worlds, my lord?’ asked Arashan. ‘If so I may acco–’

  ‘No, no, I go alone, north,’ said Pranix. ‘To the mountains.’

  Eight

  Three nights later and an ocean away, the coastal city of Nulstrom had prepared as best it could for invasion. Nulstrom was the gateway to Laghast’s main continent, a port city built at the very edge of the landmass, the outer walls of the city’s hives providing a barrier of human lives as well as rockcrete against any invasion. Lissica had grown up in one of those windowless habs, her life underscored by the distant boom of waves crashing against the walls.

  So Lissica and her fellow Jandarme of the Coastal Watch, along with any citizen who could fight or help build further defences, had spent three days working to prepare.

  The wind coming off the sea was bitterly cold, cutting through Lissica’s uniform and through to her bones. She kept watch nonetheless, raising a telescope in shaking hands to look out to sea. There was not much to see. The darkness was almost total, a dim, glistening reflection of the daylit continents on the other side of the world rippling on the water’s surface.

  When Lissica caught sight of something large out there, she wasn’t at first sure that her frozen brain wasn’t playing tricks on her. She moved her telescope around to check she was not just looking at the broken causeway – but no, there it was, stretching out into the distance, a black strip that ended in collapse somewhere out of sight.

  She turned back to the mysterious shape. There were two of them now. Distances were hard to judge, at sea and at night, but they seemed to be tall, bulky things, floating towards the shore.

  ‘Trakhanov!’ she shouted, and pointed out to sea.

  An older man, Lissica’s superior, ran forwards and raised a pair of magnoculars to his eyes. ‘I see them too,’ he said. The shifting darkness could easily cause a jumpy sentry to raise a false alarm, so all sightings needed a second opinion.