by Mark Clapham
‘Welcome, traitors,’ said the passenger. It was a heavily modulated voice, and it came from the walls all around rather than the body of the passenger itself.
‘Red Corsairs,’ corrected Rotaka, bolter at the ready. Who knew what capabilities this thing had to defend itself? It could even be a psyker.
The passenger shrugged, a tidal wave passing through its flesh.
‘When the communications were disrupted, I knew the Hollow Worlds were under attack,’ said the passenger. ‘I hoped your invasion would bring you this far.’
‘Hoped?’ said Rotaka. ‘Do you know who we are?’
‘Traitors, as I said,’ said the passenger. ‘Killers, murderers, despicable scum.’
Hulpin growled and lifted his bolter. The others looked restless too.
‘Control yourselves,’ Rotaka snapped over the squad vox, not knowing if the passenger could hear them or not.
The passenger raised one great, flabby arm in a dismissive wave, and a chuckle emerged from the surrounding speakers.
‘You would not want to kill me yet, traitors,’ said the passenger. ‘Not until you have what you want from me, at least. Do not let wounded pride rob you of your prize.’
‘You know what we want?’ asked Rotaka.
The passenger sighed. ‘What else, but the only thing I have,’ he said. ‘Apart from my train, and its crew. And you seem to have broken those.’
The mass of flesh leaned forwards, and its mouth suddenly opened, black tongue licking dry lips.
‘You want to access the Orrery,’ croaked the passenger’s true voice, quietly.
‘Then give us what we want,’ said Rotaka. ‘And your death will be quick.’
‘Of course,’ said the passenger, reverting to its artificial voice. ‘It is my purpose to sit here, knowing the code. I and my brother, the gateholder, are in perfect synchronicity – whatever I imagine the code should be, he imagines also. For that to work, they let us retain our imaginations. If they mutilated our minds the system wouldn’t work. Can you understand what it is to be trapped like this, your suffering only limited to your imagination?’
The passenger was ranting now, furious. No wonder he would give up the secret so easily – he hated the Imperium and the authorities that had put him here; he would happily help the Corsairs burn the Hollow Worlds.
‘The code,’ said Rotaka
‘Two words,’ said the passenger ‘Two words my brother and I will both think, watching your invasion from afar, trapped in our twin prisons, only able to–’
‘Spare us your self-pity and just tell us the damn code,’ barked Malinko. ‘Before I torture you out of sheer boredom.’
‘Poisoned chalice,’ snapped the passenger. ‘The code is “poisoned chalice”.’
He looked straight at Rotaka, and again Rotaka wondered if the passenger was a psyker, if he knew about the vision from the Cup of Blessings.
The passenger opened his mouth again, but before he could speak Verbin fired a plasma bolt into the bloated human, obliterating its head and cleaving a burning gash through most of its torso. Thick, dark blood dribbled out of the gaping wound and began to spread across the floor in a pool.
‘Conversations,’ said Verbin dismissively, and the others just grunted in agreement.
Various warning lights began to flash around the room, and the main lights went red.
‘Verbin, let’s have an exit here,’ said Rotaka, deactivating Iltz and tucking the skull away again.
Verbin nodded, and blasted a hole in the side of the train with the plasma cannon.
‘I’m starting to like this thing,’ he said, hefting the weapon in his grip and admiring the hole. ‘Can I keep it?’
‘Knock yourself out,’ said Rotaka. ‘Speaking of which, Malinko, this looks like your sort of fun.’ Rotaka gestured to the sheer drop outside the train.
‘Thank you,’ laughed Malinko, and then he ran at the hole Verbin had made and leapt out of the train, falling down into the depths of the forest, jump pack firing to slow his descent.
Running towards the hole himself, the rest of his squad just behind him, Rotaka heard Malinko’s gleeful laughter echoing over the vox all the way down.
Thirteen
Laghast had been a world of still seas and skies a few weeks before, but now it was a world of fierce, unnatural storms, and the worst of these disturbances were centred around the Archway to Kerresh. Since Valthex and Anto reopened the Archway, the city of Rubicon had been plagued by burning rain, purple-red lightning that danced across the ground as if searching out targets, and hailstones large enough to kill a man.
Huron Blackheart’s command centre was near the Archway, in the shadow of the generator his Chief Techmarine and the Tiger Claws sorcerer had created between them. The command centre was based in old Imperial buildings, the aquilas stricken out with crude red crosses. The walls were marked with symbols of Chaos, the floors and surfaces covered in maps and battle plans, the corners laden with trophies.
But when the storms came the Tyrant rarely stayed indoors; instead he was often to be found at the heart of the storm, standing near the Archway, the blades of the Tyrant’s Claw almost touching the incandescent surface of the portal to Kerresh.
That was where Valthex found him, standing in front of the portal as icy rain lashed down from turbulent skies, gathering in dirty puddles across the muddy courtyard. He had found him here many times. While the Red Corsairs spread their influence to other worlds, Huron commanded from this one city, seemingly reticent to enter the Archway, but fascinated by it. He stood there, a shadow against the light of the portal, his dark presence heavy.
After his rage at the delays, Huron had been entranced by the Archway once it had reopened, and had paid Valthex what sounded remarkably like a compliment.
‘The point of transition,’ he had said, standing before the Archway as he did now. ‘You and Anto have created a remarkable uncertainty here, Valthex. The point of change between one thing and another.’
Now, Huron was silent, and Valthex had to speak to gain his attention.
‘News from Captain Rotaka, my lord,’ said Valthex reluctantly. It was never entirely safe to disturb Huron Blackheart. ‘Access to the Orrery is ours. We have a precise location and the code to enter.’
‘Show me,’ said Huron Blackheart, turning to Valthex. Rain dripped down his face, flowing down the deep channels in his grey, dead skin.
They entered Huron’s command centre, water dripping off them over a cracked tile floor. The room was empty apart from two servitors awaiting instruction, but Valthex knew Huron’s bodyguards would not be far away. There were many maps on the central table, but Valthex projected an image on the wall.
‘Here, my lord, on the planet Karstveil,’ said Valthex. ‘There is a desolate island, on the far side of the world from the Archway, surrounded by turbulent seas. The localised weather effect may be artificial, part of the defence systems.’
Huron Blackheart was silent, staring at the nondescript blob on the map.
‘Shall I tell our spearhead on Hacasta to move immediately to Karstveil, my lord?’ asked Valthex.
‘No,’ said Huron Blackheart, his white eye filled with a predatory hunger. ‘Tell them to hold position and wait for my arrival. I shall take the Orrery myself.’
As a girl, Sergeant Anju Badya of the Tallarn desert raiders had seen the aftermath of an entire city collapsing, and had hoped to never see such a densely packed population of humanity again. Then she and her squad rode out onto the platforms high above the surface of Trincul, and saw the refugee camp.
Trincul was a world of flatlands, its Inner Dock a raised city of metal platforms overlooking the dire swamps. As the Tallarns deployed into the Inner Dock, Badya looked out across a refugee camp that stretched to the very horizon, an endless sprawl of makeshift tents and huts.
&nbs
p; ‘They have been coming here since the invasion began,’ a Jandarme told her. ‘All the ships have gone, but still they come.’
‘What do they eat?’ asked Badya.
‘I don’t know,’ said the Jandarme, his face covered by his cap as he stood next to her horse. ‘Each other, perhaps?’
Anju made a non-committal noise, and the Jandarme wandered off.
Sergeant Badya and the rest of the Tallarn 14th, along with many other forces of the Imperium, had been in the final days of a long campaign against the ork when the inquisitor had fallen from the sky. A few days later she had seen Pranix in person, addressing the gathered forces and tasking them with liberating the Hollow Worlds. He had inspired her then, standing on a tank in full robes and wielding a staff, but seeing the scale of what they faced…
Of course, the Tallarns did not face this threat alone. There had been other forces fighting on Durrl, and Anju had no doubt it was their aid the inquisitor required most.
To Lord Cheng’s disgust, the governor of Trincul had disappeared shortly after the invasion began, the suspicion being that he had bribed his way out of the system to destinations unknown. In his flight he had left his palace to the mob, and when Lord Cheng and his retinue arrived to establish their base of operations there, they found it crowded with refugees.
A formal invitation had been extended to Inquisitor Pranix, requesting he meet the system governor there. As Cheng’s servants set out the maps and charts of the system governor’s war room in a heavily vandalised dining hall, the sound of screams and occasional gunfire could be heard as the Jandarme drove starving refugees out of the rest of the palace.
Kretschman watched and listened to all this, his new dress uniform unnaturally comfortable. He felt exposed. In Inquisitor Pranix’s absence, Lord Dumas Cheng had summoned Kretschman to Ressial and his court, to act as some kind of substitute for the inquisitor. It was a role Kretschman was poorly qualified to fill, but Cheng wanted to know what little Kretschman knew about Pranix, and Lieutenant Nistal seemed glad to be rid of a sergeant who had now walked away from two massacres intact.
So Kretschman had become an unlikely liaison to the system governor. Cheng had interrogated him long into the night about Pranix, the Red Corsairs’ methods, and what little Kretschman knew of previous engagements with Traitor Marines. He had even had Kretschman try to instil some Cadian wisdom in the senior officers of the Jandarme, an embarrassment for both the veteran sergeant and the weathered commanders ordered to listen to him.
Now it was Pranix who Cheng put all his hopes in. The system governor had set out for Trincul – the Lightward entrance to the Hollow Worlds, a gateway to relatively untroubled, secure Imperium-held space – the moment word came in of a large task force of Space Marines landing at the Lightward Gate. The power of their drop pod assault had left the algae-covered surface of Trincul a cratered mess. It was an act of desperation, to Kretschman’s mind, but it was consistent with Cheng’s behaviour in the weeks since he had arrived at the Gatehouse on Ressial. Cheng was determined to impress Pranix, even though Kretschman knew the inquisitor would not hesitate to take full control of whatever power Cheng still held.
When the inquisitor arrived, it was with no fanfare, although considering the company he now kept he didn’t need it. Kretschman was surprised to see Pranix had abandoned his modest garb in favour of full Inquisitorial regalia, although Pranix seemed exactly as comfortable in his full finery as Kretschman did in his.
More striking still were his companions. They were Space Marines, far less monstrous than those Kretschman had seen on Laghast, but no less dangerous. Bearded and draped in furs over their armour, they had an alert, feral presence, and Kretschman had no doubt they could tear his new arm off and smack his head in with the shoulder joint without the slightest effort or hesitation. They towered over the mortals in the room, and only Pranix seemed less than intimidated by their presence.
No wonder – they were Space Wolves, legendary even in the annals of the Adeptus Astartes, feared by all enemies of the Imperium. They gave off a strong animal stench. Their beards and hair were thick and matted; black pinprick pupils stared out from bright yellow irises.
Each of them had one pauldron emblazoned with an icon of a wolf skull against a crescent moon. One stood even taller than the others, his jaw thicker and hair whiter, his armour edged with gold and the outline of a golden wolf’s head on his breastplate. The moonlight caught the pommel of his silvered chainsword, on which a gauntleted hand rested. His silvery hair flowed long, seemingly merging with the wolf pelt draped over his shoulders. Everything about him indicated he was the leader of the Space Wolves.
‘Lord Cheng,’ said Pranix, breaking a stunned silence.
‘Lord Inquisitor Pranix,’ said Cheng, recovering his posture. ‘Thank you for accepting my invitation, and for coming to the aid of our Hollow Worlds in this most desperate hour.’
‘An honour, system governor,’ said Pranix, continuing the formalities. ‘May I introduce Wolf Lord…’
At which point he trailed off, staring at Kretschman.
Inquisitor Pranix seemed genuinely, speechlessly shocked.
And that shock in turn shocked Kretschman.
‘Veteran Sergeant Kretschman,’ said Pranix, ignoring the system governor and the towering Space Marines. ‘What a distinct surprise to see you here, after I left you on Laghast. I expected you to be out there somewhere, with your regiment.’
‘I would have expected that too, my lord,’ said Kretschman, aware that he was the centre of attention. ‘Yet my orders have brought me here.’
‘You seem to have an uncanny ability to gravitate towards the centre of events, Kretschman,’ said Pranix, an odd look in his eye.
‘I assure you, my lord, it was never my intention to do so,’ Kretschman replied, trying to seem as modest as possible.
‘Yes,’ said Pranix. ‘I think that’s true.’
Then he turned back to Cheng.
‘Apologies, my lord,’ said the inquisitor. ‘Let us discuss matters of strategy, if we may…’
While their jarl discussed strategy with the inquisitor and system governor, nearby the rest of the Space Wolves had raised their encampment. Kaerls ran back and forth on errands for their masters, the air filled with fumes as the engines of tanks were tuned and tested, and everywhere, the Sky Warriors, the Vlka Fenryka, the Space Wolves, gathered around fires, drank mjod and told stories as they always had.
Anvindr Godrichsson and his pack were in no mood for stories. They had been restless since Durrl, when the inquisitor had fallen from the sky. On the inquisitor’s word their jarl had left his second, Gunnar Redmoon, and a small force to finish their work on Durrl, and had led the rest of the Skull Wolves to the Hollow Worlds.
Pranix. Anvindr and his pack had met him once before, in Hrondir’s tomb on Beltrasse, back when he was an interrogator serving Inquisitor Montiyf. Together they had destroyed a daemon that stalked the catacombs, but not before the daemon had killed one of their pack, Liulfr. Montiyf and Pranix had known of the daemon before, and suspected where it hid, and Anvindr had always believed that by guarding their secrets so closely, the inquisitor and interrogator had allowed Liulfr and many mortals to die unnecessarily.
Anvindr and his pack were older and greyer, but the circumstances of Liulfr’s death had haunted them through many battles since.
That Pranix had re-entered their lives, to lead them no less, seemed a bitter insult from fate.
So the pack sat around a campfire in silence, while their brothers celebrated battles past and the battle to come.
‘It gladdens me to see us all enjoying the open sky after our long confinement,’ said Sindri. Unlike Anvindr, whose heavy features were framed by a white-streaked beard and long hair, Sindri was slight for a Fenrisian, his hair a tight shock of blond curls. Although he lacked the lengthened fangs that usually sho
wed a Space Wolf brother’s maturity, there was no denying Sindri’s experience in battle and warrior spirit.
By Russ though, Sindri’s odd humour was the last thing Anvindr wished to face right now.
‘This discussion is futile,’ said Gulbrandr, without looking up from polishing his bolter. Gulbrandr’s raven-black beard had fangs of white streaking down to the chin now, but his pale skin was still as impassive as marble, his amber eyes as sharp as flints.
‘What discussion?’ asked Sindri, throwing up his gauntlets. ‘We discuss nothing.’
‘Nothing to discuss,’ rumbled Tormodr, the largest of the pack. His mouth was barely visible beneath his thick moustache, his eyes shadowed by his heavy brow. Tormodr rarely spoke, but when he did even Sindri listened.
‘Tormodr is right, the jarl has spoken,’ said red-headed Hoenir, gesturing with his scarlet-painted power fist. Hoenir, lone survivor of his own pack, had joined them years ago, and was no young Blood Claw, yet his presence in place of Liulfr surprised Anvindr still.
‘And yet somehow I feel there are words unspoken still,’ said Sindri, his words dripping with sarcasm.
Nevertheless, Sindri sat down and joined them in silence, defeated.
It was true that Anvindr had spoken with his jarl, Haakan, in his tent while the injured inquisitor slept, back on Durrl. He had recounted the events of their last encounter with Pranix, of how Pranix’s secrets had allowed Liulfr and many mortals to die at the claws of the daemon in Hrondir’s tomb.
‘Did you kill the beast?’ Haakan had asked.
‘We did,’ Anvindr had replied. ‘The inquisitor, and Pranix, and the rest of my pack. Together we destroyed that filthy thing.’
‘Together,’ Haakan had repeated.
‘Yes,’ Anvindr had said. ‘None of us could have butchered it alone.’
Haakan had sat back. The light caught his sunken eyes, lamplight reflecting from his pupils.
‘We are the Rout, Anvindr, you know our accounts,’ he had said. ‘We were chosen by the Emperor not simply because we would slaughter traitors without mercy, but because we would do so relentlessly, without reservation. We show no mercy to the enemy but, when our orders demand it, neither should we show mercy to ourselves. You lost a brother due to this Pranix, but that was one loss on the way to your enemy’s defeat. We do not have to like the tactics to see the necessity of the outcome.’
