Cult of the Warmason

by C. L. Werner

  ‘You are conceding the field to the enemy?’ Kashibai wondered. ‘We’ve captured the pipe and their laser battery. We have them on the run.’ Timidity was something she’d never expected to hear Trishala express. She should have known retreat wasn’t her intention.

  ‘They can’t be allowed to run. We’re done fighting where and how the enemy expects us to fight,’ Trishala declared. She pointed at the bodies of Virika’s warriors. ‘As soon as our people are out, we secure the approaches to this vault and put it to the torch.’

  Kashibai nodded, but again Trishala could see the discomfort the brutal command provoked. She shook her head. ‘Don’t fear for the inhabitants. The cleansing fire will be the greatest mercy we can bestow on them.’ An edge of pain crept into her voice and there was a faraway look in her eyes when she spoke. ‘If you trust me in nothing else, Sister Kashibai, trust me when I say this.

  ‘There are perils far worse than death that wait to lay claim to mankind.’

  Cold black eyes watched as the Sisters turned the vault into a roaring inferno. The crackle of flames, the flicker of fire, the sickly smell of roasting flesh, these drifted back to the ventilation duct like phantoms from a dimly recalled dream. The only thing that was real, the only thing that was substantial to those staring eyes was the commanding figure of Sister Superior Trishala.

  The great eyes stared past the armour and flesh of Trishala, peering through them at the woman’s soul. Carefully, ever so carefully did Bakasur set his psychic feelers probing her essence. Hers was a strong spirit, bolstered by an innately resolute willpower and honed by decades of the droning devotions of the Imperial Creed. It was certain that with some slight effort, some exertion of his gifts, the magus would be able to punch through such mental defences as she could boast, but to do so would serve small purpose. The abrupt cognitive demise of Trishala would agitate the Order of the Sombre Vow even more than she was already doing. No, the prudent course was to tread carefully until the time was right.

  Bakasur slipped through the corridors of Trishala’s mind. He didn’t press his powers, didn’t strengthen his intrusion so that he could read memories and intercept thoughts. He maintained a light touch, avoiding the stray chance that she’d be aware of his spying. He contented himself with impressions, hints and extrapolations that together formed a worrying trend.

  For some time Trishala had been a menace in Tharsis, pressing for increased measures to subdue the unrest in the tunnels and among the city’s dispossessed. The escalation of local militia incursions had been a product of her campaigning. Now she’d been so bold as to bring her Battle Sisters down here from their priory. This much was known to him already, but probing her mind he found surprising revelations as to why she’d been such a persistent nuisance.

  Skimming the currents of Trishala’s mind, Bakasur saw clues to a motivation buried deep within her. She’d gone through this before. How much did she know and how much did she merely suspect? More, what did she intend to do about it?

  A soft hiss shuddered through Bakasur’s mind. The magus was drawn out of his contact with Trishala’s psyche, reacting to a far more immediate and familiar intelligence. A sympathetic wince of pain whipped across his pale features, thin lips peeling away from needle-like fangs. The magus sent a soothing vibration through the mind of the pained creature. Normally he wouldn’t dare to profane one of the Inheritors with his touch, but its suffering was a thing he couldn’t abide. It was out of concern for the Inheritor that he’d compelled it to forsake combat with Trishala after her sword struck it. After what he’d glimpsed in the woman’s memories, he wondered if it might have been better not to interfere, to give the Inheritor a chance to remove that threat.

  ‘You are safe, revered one,’ he told the three-armed Inheritor crouched beside him behind the duct’s grilled grate. ‘She won’t hurt you again.’

  Bakasur reinforced his words with a mental image of comfort and security. The Inheritors were far beyond the dull workings of human comprehension; it was difficult for them to lower themselves to human concepts. Bakasur’s physiology combined the attributes of both the Inheritors and humans, a hybrid of both mentality and biology. It was this blending that gave him his powers and his authority. Alone of the many enlightened that lurked in the shadows beneath Tharsis, it was the magus who communed with the Great Father. It was he who carried the commands of the source to its manifold generations of progeny.

  The Inheritor looked up at Bakasur, some measure of calm now subduing its agitation. It wasn’t fear, or even hate, that moved the alien’s mind to such animosity towards Trishala. No, it was the understanding of what had been done to it, the diminishment wrought upon it when she cut away its claw. That was an injury not upon the Inheritor alone, but against the Great Father’s grand design, a weakening of the skein that had been so cautiously created.

  Unlike the hybrids, unlike those in whom brute mammalian emotions still held sway, the Inheritor had no sense of selfishness to goad it into something as inconsequential as vengeance. When the Sisters interposed themselves into his ambush of the local militia, Bakasur had commanded a withdrawal, committing only a small rearguard to sacrifice themselves. But when one of the sacred Inheritors was maimed by Trishala, a fanatical rage had seized upon the cultists. Dozens had swarmed back into the vault to strike down the woman who dared set her hand against one of the holy ascendants. The result had been a massacre. Determination and ferocity were poor replacements for craft and strategy.

  Bakasur focused again upon Trishala. Yes, he felt that same urge to kill this desecrater, the same feeling of outrage thundered through his flesh. But he wouldn’t indulge such primitive drives. He could see ahead, fix his vision upon that pattern being crafted by the Great Father.

  The outrage of the moment was easily forgotten when balanced against the promises of the Great Father. Bakasur would die, all in the Cult of the Cataclysm would die, but in death all would be reborn. Reborn into a perfect unity with the cosmos itself.

  Of what consequence the travails of the flesh when set against the wonders of eternity?

  Chapter II

  The soft melody of nigh-primordial orisons rippled through the mammoth halls of Tharsis’ Sovereign Spire. Raised ages ago by the first Cardinal-Governor of Lubentina, the tower had served many roles in its time. Now the planet was led by Cardinal-Governor Sephtok Murdan, a ruler who took pride in his piety and devotion to the Imperial Creed. The incongruous blend of hubris and humility that constituted the core of Murdan’s personality had served to transform the Sovereign Spire once again. The tower was now a showpiece, an opulent display of one man’s devotion to the God-Emperor. Lavish tapestries depicting scenes from the Great Crusade had been exactingly restored after generations of neglect, hanging once more in their ancient splendour. Grand sculptures had been commissioned to accent the many antechambers and sanctuaries until no room within the tower was without the inspiring countenance of a saint, primarch or revered scion of the Ecclesiarchy staring down from the walls. Flocks of winged servitors had been dispersed into the halls, an omnipresent choir of cherubs that filled the corridors with the litanies of sacred psalms and holy chants, rich incense spilling from the censers crafted into their chests.

  The Cardinal-Governor himself was far less impressive than the magnificence of his residence. He was a spare man, his body trending towards emaciation. His flesh had a yellowed tinge to it, lending his skin a quality not unlike old parchment. The overriding impression conveyed by his long, drawn features was one of weariness. The thick robes of his office seemed to overwhelm him, fairly smothering him beneath their ostentatious bulk. His gait was a creeping shuffle that made any official procession twice as lengthy as that of his predecessor.

  It was in Murdan’s eyes that a petitioner would get a glimpse of why this man controlled Lubentina, for there alone could one glimpse the unremitting resolve that filled the current Cardinal-Governor. It was onl
y in the eyes that the tired, sickly appearance was disrupted and the zealous strength of the soul within shone through.

  Those eyes were closed while Murdan sank back into the depths of his alabaster throne and listened to the bickering of his councillors. The attitude of restful oblivion was deceptive, for he paid the keenest attention to every word spoken in his presence. Like some reptile basking in the sun, Murdan let the discourse flow into him, building up until that moment when, without preamble or warning, he would snap from his repose and seize upon some factor raised by an unfortunate councillor.

  From where she was seated among the councillors, Sister Superior Trishala closely scrutinised the Cardinal-Governor, trying to gauge how Murdan was reacting to the details he was hearing. Despite her vigilance, he remained an enigma, keeping his thoughts close and his impressions hidden behind his withered visage. After a time, Trishala diverted her attention to the man currently addressing the council.

  ‘…are growing worse,’ the clipped tones of Colonel Hafiz rang out. Commander of Lubentina’s Planetary Defence Force, Hafiz was the opposite of Murdan in almost every way and far easier for Trishala to read. Strongly built, with broad shoulders and a thick, bull-like neck, he punctuated each point he raised with an animated shake of his fist. Fierce, almost primal, in his mannerisms, Hafiz was all physicality and action. There was passion and conviction in his eyes, but these qualities lacked depth. They were more a veneer laid atop the unquestioning discipline drilled into the soldier. Initiative and independence weren’t encouraged among Lubentina’s militia.

  ‘But is it a genuine increase or a reaction to the growing presence of your troops in the Cloisterfells?’ The question was voiced by the black-robed Palatine Yadav. Among the highest-ranking priests on Lubentina, he was the keeper of the Warmason’s Cathedral, a great and prestigious position to hold. Yet these responsibilities weren’t enough for Yadav. He aspired to greater things and since taking on his duties several decades ago, he’d done everything in his power to improve the flow of pilgrims journeying to the shrine world. Anything that might present a disruption of the throngs of faithful visiting the cathedral was, to Yadav, the most abominable of sins.

  ‘There have been disturbances in the Cloisterfells for some time, palatine,’ Hafiz reminded Yadav. ‘Those disturbances have been spreading into the hab-units of the laity. Thefts, disappearances, murders – even an increase in mental breakdown in certain sections.’ The colonel clapped his hand down upon the onyx surface of the council table. ‘The use of the local militia to patrol the tunnels is a reaction to this unrest, not a provocation.’

  Yadav shook his head, irritation pulling at his features. ‘I have perused the same reports you have, colonel. After considerable evaluation of the evidence I see nothing to support your claims. A handful of isolated incidents don’t constitute a pattern. What does is the marked expansion of criminality since your troops began their campaign in the tunnels. The number of occurrences hasn’t been the only increase, but also the scope and violence of these outbreaks.’ He looked down at the data-slate resting on the table beside his arm, manipulating the runes displayed upon its crystal face until the device recalled the report he was seeking. ‘Here is an example for you. Forty days ago Argos Mineral Hoarding VII suffered an intrusion during their maintenance cycle. One Ares-pattern mining laser and twelve power cells were stolen in the incident. This theft was executed in such a fashion as to avoid the attention of the hoarding’s personnel until well after the robbery was accomplished.’ Yadav again consulted the data-slate. ‘Let us move forwards to three days ago, well after your patrols began. The same hoarding was again violated, but this time the perpetrators seized six mining lasers, a hundred power cells, seven cases of delving charges and a gross of power picks, maul-hammers and plasma-drills. We also have to address the fact that they murdered sixty-three workers when they staged this outrage.’ Yadav peered closely at Hafiz. ‘Your patrols aren’t quelling the unrest in the tunnels, but have made things worse.’

  From across the council table, the corpulent Minister Kargil interjected his own opinion on the subject of escalation. ‘What has made things worse, palatine, is the trespass by the Order of the Sombre Vow into the Cloisterfells.’ He waved a pudgy, bejewelled hand towards Trishala. ‘They should be content with the prestige of serving as protectors of the cathedral. Instead we find them charging around underground getting into gunfights with gangers and damaging the infrastructure of Tharsis.’

  Trishala leaned forwards, ready to offer rebuke to Kargil. It was annoyance enough that the council saw fit to waste time with debate and discussion when action was called for. That she’d been summoned here when she should be organising her Battle Sisters for a more thorough incursion into the Cloisterfells only worsened her temper. Verbal abuse from a profiteer like Kargil was the final indignity.

  ‘It is a simple thing to speak of obligation and duty for someone to whom those are just words,’ Trishala said. ‘What duty do you know beyond growing your wealth? Do you feel any obligation to the pilgrims who come to Lubentina but lack the resources to leave? No, you leave them to sink into the Cloisterfells where they and their descendants lose the Emperor’s light and become a breeding ground for heresy and worse.’

  Kargil rapped his rings together in a petulant gesture. ‘The dregs of the Cloisterfells have only to climb to the surface to do homage to the God-Emperor. They are too lazy to rise to such effort. You accuse me of being faithless, yet you make excuses for them? For that matter, if the tunnels are such a hotbed of heresy and rebellion as you say, why is it only now that the Order of the Sombre Vow has taken an interest in them? Is it perhaps that your boldness is reserved for festivals and pageants?’

  Colonel Hafiz made a slashing motion of his hand. ‘I’ll hear none of that,’ the officer snarled. ‘If not for the Sisters the entire patrol would have been wiped out.’

  ‘You know that for a fact, do you?’ Kargil asked, unable to keep a sneer from his visage. ‘You know that your troopers wouldn’t have been able to acquit themselves perfectly well on their own? I know your men suffered terrible losses, but how many of those losses were inflicted by these seditious elements and how many were lost when the Sisters became over-zealous and started setting everything on fire?’

  Hafiz glanced at Trishala, a look of apology in his eyes. When he swung around to face Kargil, there was no trace of softness in his gaze. ‘You have the wrong of it,’ he said, each word carefully enunciated, exactingly stripped of the emotion boiling inside him. ‘The situation was critical. Without Sister Superior Trishala’s intervention, none of us would have got out of that vault.’

  ‘None of us?’ Kargil repeated, a malignant glow rushing into his face. ‘Is it the usual protocol for the commander of a planet’s defence forces to personally lead a simple patrol? By the Throne! And you wonder why this scum came against you in such force?’

  ‘You see how your decisions have exacerbated the situation?’ Yadav asked the colonel. ‘Going down into the tunnels yourself could only make things worse. Your presence could serve only as a rallying cry for these seditious elements. Do you appreciate the coup they could effect by killing you? In the deluded minds of such men they would consider such an accomplishment as legitimization of their grievances, something to embolden their wayward scheming still further.’

  ‘It needn’t be sedition,’ Kargil said. ‘We’ve not had serious trouble with rebels here for generations. The grumblers and complainers we do suffer aren’t the sort to take up arms and go shooting up platoons of soldiers. I say the culprits are gangers. They learned Colonel Hafiz was coming into their territory and decided that the ransom they could demand for him was big enough to–’

  ‘The enemy isn’t gangers or rebels,’ Trishala declared. ‘There is a xenos infestation underneath this city.’

  From the metal casket she’d brought with her she removed an object wrapped in rough fabric. ‘I
have the proof,’ she added as she slammed it down on the table. The fabric fell open, exposing the purplish claw she’d cut from the monster in the vault.

  Trishala’s display was met with a stunned silence. Murdan seemed to sink deeper into his voluminous robes, retreating before this shocking claim. Kargil’s face grew steadily redder, his fat body swelling with indignation. A tremor shook Yadav, one of his hands closing about the aquila medallion he wore around his neck, as if to ward away some evil omen. Hafiz stared down at the claw, studying it with intense scrutiny. The other councillors looked at one another in both alarm and confusion.

  It was Kargil who finally broke the awkward silence. ‘Xenos,’ he scoffed. ‘Are you asking us to believe that after millennia of human habitation an alien threat has only now chosen to make itself known?’

  ‘There is no denying that talon is an offence,’ one of the other ministers said, quickly averting her eyes when she chanced to look at the limb.

  ‘Mutation,’ Yadav said. ‘It is a lamentable reality that the bodies of those who have withdrawn from the Emperor’s light can harbour the most grievous abnormalities. Corruption twists both flesh and soul. Where the mutant is found, the rot of heresy isn’t far away. It is a terrible slight upon all of us that a shrine world could exhibit this kind of manifestation. It is a warning that we haven’t been vigilant. That we haven’t been zealous enough in our duties to the God-Emperor.’

  Trishala turned to the palatine. ‘This claw came from an alien, not a mutant.’ She let her gaze stray to Kargil. ‘And I didn’t claim this xenos was indigenous to Lubentina.’

  Kargil cut her off with a huff of laughter. ‘I was unaware that you had been trained as a magos biologis as well as a Battle Sister. You must have been to make such an assertion.’