The Eshkeen watched curiously as N’Kalo moved through their domain. They walked paths almost hidden in the forest, avoiding traps and dead ends sown liberally throughout the forest. In places N’Kalo could see the waters of the ocean between the roots underfoot, and glimpse Eshkeen walking there, too, wading through the waters to fish or keep watch over the coastal approaches. In other places the ground underfoot was solid, with tunnels and bunkers dug into it. The Eshkeen themselves wore patchworks of body armour and scraps of captured uniform, the most colourful belonging to those who looked the most experienced and deadly. The right to sport the captured garb of the enemy was evidently a privilege that had to be earned.
In the heart of the stronghold was a fortification of stone instead of wood, concentric circles of jagged battlements forming a huge granite maw around a pit in the centre. Sarpedon followed a complex path through the fortifications, leading N’Kalo through them even though he could probably have scrambled over them with ease thanks to his arachnid limbs. The trees did not grow here so an artificial canopy had been stretched out overhead, a lattice of vines and ropes woven with leaves, to keep it hidden. There were no Eshkeen keeping watch among the fortifications, but many of them had gathered in the trees around the clearing to watch the two Space Marines descending to the pit.
‘Like you,’ said Sarpedon, ‘we heeded the distress call from the Parliaments of Molikor. But we have learned to be circumspect. A little more suspicious, perhaps, of our own Emperor-fearing citizens. We arrived here without informing the Parliaments of our presence, and spoke instead to the Eshkeen. When we hear only one side of the story, I find we inevitably miss out on the more interesting half.’
The pit was a shaft lined with carved stones, forming a spiral frieze winding down into the darkness. The frieze depicted an endless tangle of human bodies, contorted and wounded, missing limbs or eyes, faces drawn in pain. The Eshkeen who had sculpted it, countless generations ago, had used a stylised technique that removed the subtleties of the human form and left only the pain. Winding wooden stairs provided a way down into the shaft.
‘When Imperial settlers were brought to Molikor,’ explained Sarpedon as he and N’Kalo descended the shaft, ‘they sent out explorers to tame the marshland and forge a path to the ocean. They hoped to build a port on this coast and spread to the planet’s other continents. They never managed it, mainly because the land was too marshy and the Eshkeen rather unfriendly. But one of them did find this.’
N’Kalo made note of Sarpedon’s words with one half of his mind. The other half was trying to work out how he could turn on Sarpedon. They were alone now, and Sarpedon’s fellow Soul Drinkers could not come to his aid. If N’Kalo got behind Sarpedon, and if he was quick enough, he could throw Sarpedon off the staircase down the shaft. But the fall would not be guaranteed to kill him – indeed, N’Kalo could now see the bottom of the shaft strewn with leaves and broken branches, and a Space Marine would barely be inconvenienced by the distance. He could grab Sarpedon’s neck in a choke, but his aegis collar would make that difficult and besides, a Space Marine could go a long time before his three lungs gave out. By then Sarpedon could have climbed up the shaft and brought N’Kalo to the Soul Drinkers to face retribution.
And perhaps most importantly, N’Kalo felt a truth in Sarpedon’s words. N’Kalo wanted to know what was hidden down here, what could cause a Space Marine, even a renegade one, to fight his brothers. So he held back and followed as Sarpedon reached the bottom of the shaft and headed down a tunnel that led away to one side.
This tunnel was also carved with images. Eyes and hands covered the walls, symbols of watching and warding. N’Kalo could hear, on the hot, damp breeze washing over him from the far end of the tunnel, the reedy strains of voices. They were screaming, hundreds of them, the sounds overlapping like the threads of a tapestry.
A cavern opened up ahead, wet stone lit from beneath by a blood-red glow. The screaming got louder. N’Kalo tensed, unsure of what was ahead, one part of his brain still watching for a drop in Sarpedon’s guard.
‘Molikor,’ said Sarpedon, ‘has a curious relationship with its dead.’
The tunnel reached the threshold of a sudden drop. Beyond it was a cavern, as vast as an ocean, filled almost to the level of the tunnel entrance by a sea of writhing bodies.
N’Kalo was all but stunned by his first sight of it. The awfulness of it, the impossibility, seemed intent on prying his mind from his senses. The bodies were naked, men and women, all ages, the whole spectrum of shapes, sizes and skin tones. The glow was coming from their eyes, and from the wounds that wept bloody and fresh in their bodies. Many bore the scarring of the Eshkeen but there were countless others, from dozens of cultures.
‘Who are they?’ said N’Kalo.
‘Everyone who has ever died on Molikor,’ replied Sarpedon. ‘No one knows how far down it goes. When you die on Molikor, your body decays and is absorbed by the earth. Then it reforms here, vomited back up by the planet. Here they are, everyone this world has claimed since the Age of Strife.’
‘Why… why are you showing me this?’ said N’Kalo.
Sarpedon unholstered his bolt pistol. For a moment N’Kalo thought the Soul Drinker would turn on him, but instead Sarpedon held it handle-first towards N’Kalo. ‘Because I could not expect you to just take my word for it,’ said Sarpedon. ‘And besides, I haven’t shown you anything yet.’
The bodies heaved up, like a breaking wave. N’Kalo barely had time to close his hand around the bolt pistol before they were surging around him, a terrible flood of gasping limbs. N’Kalo saw they were not corpses, nor alive, but something else, reborn as they had been at the moment of death and filled with the same emotions – fear, anger, abandonment. Their screams were wordless torrents of pain. One wrapped its arms around N’Kalo, trying to force his head down – N’Kalo blasted it apart with a shot to the upper chest and it flowed past him, reforming in a burst of blood-coloured light.
Sarpedon grabbed N’Kalo’s free wrist. ‘Follow,’ he shouted above the screaming, and hauled N’Kalo off the edge of the drop and into the cavern.
It took a long time for the two Space Marines to forge their way through the dead of Molikor. Sarpedon’s arachnid limbs proved adept at opening up a tunnel through the writhing bodies, and their path was lit by the red glow of whatever energy animated these echoes of the dead. The screaming was muffled now, like the crashing of a distant ocean, with the occasional shriek reaching through. N’Kalo followed as Sarpedon burrowed on, winding a path downwards. N’Kalo contemplated shooting him with his own bolt pistol, but then he would be trapped in this ocean of bodies and he did not know if he would be able to climb out of it. And besides, he wanted to know what Sarpedon had to show him. That curiosity was a human emotion, not that of a Space Marine, but nevertheless it gripped N’Kalo now.
Sarpedon pulled back a final veil of bodies and revealed an opening, like an abscess, in the mass. It had formed around a spike of stone, a stalagmite, to which was chained another body.
This body was that of a male Imperial citizen, N’Kalo could tell that at first glance. He had a glowing, raw hole over one eye where a bionic had once been implanted, and the Imperial aquila had been tattooed on one shoulder. He was the only one of Molikor’s dead that N’Kalo had seen who was restrained in this way.
‘This,’ said Sarpedon, ‘is Manter Thyll. He was sent by the Parliaments of Molikor to explore the delta marshlands. He found the Eshkeen and bargained his way into the pit, to see what they were so intent on protecting. They thought when he saw this place, he would treat its protection as a sacred undertaking just like they did. But they were wrong.’
Sarpedon took a data-slate from the belt of his armour. N’Kalo hadn’t noticed it before, since his attention had been focussed on Sarpedon’s abhorrent mutations to the exclusion of such a detail.
‘This is the report he sent back to the Parliaments,’ said Sarpedon.
The image was of poor qual
ity, only just recognisable as the face of the man chained to the rock. In life, Manter Thyll had combined an explorer’s ruggedness with a gentlemanly façade, his well-weathered face surmounted by a powdered periwig.
‘–the Eshkeen had guarded it for generations, my lords. And though at first appearance it was a horrible sight, yet upon closer examination and the questioning of my Eshkeen hosts I came to understand it is the greatest treasure this world possesses. They are not living beings, you see, but they are not dead. They do not age, they do not tire. They simply exist. Think, my lords! Think what a resource they could be! An endless source of brute labour! If they can be trained then all is well, if not then a simple system of electronics and interfaces would suffice to make them useful. I believe that the dead of Molikor are the most potent natural resource on this entire–’
Sarpedon paused the recording. N’Kalo stared dumbly for a few seconds at Thyll’s image, then at the man’s face.
‘He came back to bargain with the Eshkeen for access to the pit,’ said Sarpedon. ‘They knew what he wanted by then. They killed him.’
‘Did they chain his body here?’ said N’Kalo.
‘No. I did, so that I could show it to someone like you. What Thyll and the Parliamentarians did not realise, but what the Eshkeen have known for thousands of years, is that power like this cannot be tapped without consequences. The veil between realspace and the warp is thin here. The emotions of the dying find form in the warp and are cast back out into this pit. The ancestors of Molikor’s tribes knew it, and they sent their best warriors to guard the pit. They grew to be the Eshkeen. When the Imperium settled Molikor, the Parliamentarians learned of the pit and they decided they wanted it for themselves, without having any idea what it truly was.’
Sarpedon began to tear at the mass again, opening a path back up towards the surface. N’Kalo could only follow, conflicting emotions coursing through him. The immensity of what Sarpedon was saying, the concept of a world that regurgitated its dead as these mindless things, the claim that the Parliamentarians were the aggressors and that the Eshkeen were the only thing standing between Molikor and damnation – it weighed on him, and would not sit straight in his mind. Everything N’Kalo had believed about Molikor, everything he had assumed, was wrong.
The First Parliament of Molikor, the Father of Power, the Imperial Seat, the Font of Majesty, towered over the assembled councillors like a second set of heavens. The dome of the First Parliament was painted to resemble a sky, dramatic clouds backlit by golden sunlight echoing fanciful images of Terra’s own glories. The members of the First Parliament, drawn from the lesser parliaments of Molikor’s cities, were resplendent in the uniforms of the planet’s many militaries or the finery of their mercantile houses, wearing the symbol of the aquila to proclaim their loyalty to the Imperium.
Three thousand men and women were gathered beneath the First Parliament’s dome, the centremost place taken by Lord Speaker Vannarian Wrann. Wrann, as the mouthpiece of the First Parliament, was recognised as Molikor’s Imperial Governor. He was a sturdy and squat man, ermine-trimmed robes hanging off wide shoulders. He wore the massive gilded chain of his office around where his neck would have been had one existed between his barrel chest and shaven, glowering lump of a head. On the chain hung a silver aquila studded with diamonds and rubies, to match the fat gemstones on the rings he wore on his stubby fingers.
‘Men and women of the First Parliament!’ shouted Wrann. ‘You sons and daughters of the Imperial Will! We hereby recognise Commander N’Kalo of the Iron Knights!’
N’Kalo made his way down the aisle towards the centre of the dome. Every eye followed him. Jaded as they were by every honour and beautification Molikor could place before them, the sight of a Space Marine was something new to them. Those closest shuddered in fear as N’Kalo walked past, for even in his knightly armour with its crests and laurels there was no mistaking that he was fundamentally a killing machine.
‘Honoured councillors of Molikor,’ began N’Kalo as he approached Wrann. ‘Many thanks for receiving me to the heart of your government. The Iron Knights, as you do, claim the will of the Emperor as their warrant to arms, and in this we are brethren beneath His sight.’
‘You are welcomed, Commander N’Kalo, and your brother Space Marines are granted all honours it is the First Parliament’s right to bestow. Truly you stand before us as saviours of our people, as deliverers of our citizens from the threats that have so gravely beset us.’ Wrann’s words were met with polite applause from the First Parliament’s members. ‘Do you come here to tell us that the rebellion has been quashed?’ he continued. ‘That the hateful Eshkeen will no longer plague our lands with their savagery, and that the Emperor’s rule shall continue on Molikor?’
N’Kalo removed his helm. In spite of the need to keep up appearances, many councillors could not help grimacing or even turning away at the sight of N’Kalo’s burned face, its skin here blackened, there deformed like wax that had melted and recooled, and elsewhere missing entirely.
‘No, Lord Speaker,’ he said. ‘I have not.’
His words were met with silence. Those councillors who did not stare in grim fascination at N’Kalo’s face glanced uneasily between their neighbours.
‘Commander?’ said Wrann. ‘Pray, explain yourself.’
‘I have seen the pit,’ said N’Kalo. ‘I have heard the words of Manter Thyll. When my Iron Knights answered the call for intervention from this Parliament, they did so without critical thought, without exploring first the history of this world and the true nature of its conflicts. Ours is the way of action, not contemplation. But we were forced into examining Molikor by allies of the Eshkeen, who also responded to your pleas for assistance, but to find out the truth, not merely destroy the Eshkeen as you desired.’
‘Of what pit do you speak?’ demanded Wrann. ‘And this Manter Thyll? We know nothing of–’
‘Do not lie to me!’ shouted N’Kalo. The councillors sitting closest to him tried to scramble away, ending up on one another’s laps to put some distance between them and the angry Space Marine. ‘I sought to understand for myself. I went to the historical archives in Molik Tertiam. Yes, to that place you thought hidden from the eyes of outsiders! My battle-brothers stormed the estate of Horse Marshal Konigen, that hero of your history, and demanded of him the truth of why he first led his armies into the delta lands! We know the truth, my brothers and I. The war on Molikor is not about an uprising by the Eshkeen. It is about your desire to exploit Molikor’s dead as labour for your mines and shipyards! It is about the wealth they can bring you! It is about your willingness to exploit the powers bleeding from the warp, and the Eshkeen’s determination to prevent you from committing such a sin!’
‘Then what would you have us do?’ shouted Wrann. ‘This frontier hangs by a thread! Without the war materiel that such labour could produce, we will never hold the Ghoul Stars! Humanity can barely survive out here as it is! Would you have us enslave our own? Would you have us grind our own hands to bone?’
‘No,’ replied N’Kalo calmly. ‘I would have you leave.’
The Judgement Upon Garadan made little concession to the embellishment and glorification that endowed many other Adeptus Astartes strike cruisers. It was every inch a warship, all riveted iron and hard, brutal lines, and as it hung in orbit over Molikor it seemed to glower down at the clouded planet. The lion-head crest, mounted above the prow like heraldry on a feudal knight’s helm, was the sole concession to appearances.
Inside, the Judgement was much the same, with little to suggest the glorious history the Iron Knights brought with them. N’Kalo conducted most of his ship’s business from the monastic cell in which he trained and meditated when his flag-captain did not require him on the bridge. The pict screen mounted on one wall showed a close-up of the space above Molikor’s main spaceport. N’Kalo watched as a flock of merchant and cargo ships drifted up from the cloud cover, a shower of silvery sparks. On those ships was the Imperial
population of Molikor, among them the Parliamentarian leaders. Those leaders had, less than three days ago, received an ivory scroll case containing orders to evacuate their planet on pain of destruction. Those orders were signed with a single ‘I’, which gave them an authority within the Imperium second only to the word of the God-Emperor Himself.
Inside the scroll case had also been a string of rosarius beads. It was a traditional message. If you defy these orders, they implied, then use these beads to pray, for prayer is your only hope of deliverance.
Events moved slowly in space, given the vast distances involved. The pict screen flicked between the views of the fleeing Parliamentarian ships, and the single vessel, its livery gold and black, that drifted in from its concealed observation position behind one of Molikor’s moons. This ship, of which N’Kalo did not know the name, had arrived at Molikor so quickly it must have possessed archeotech or even xenos drives to have made so rapid a journey through the warp.
It was a vessel of the Inquisition. N’Kalo needed no communications with the craft to know that. His flag-captain had hailed it anyway and, as expected, there had been no reply. The Adeptus Astartes had done their job on Molikor. Now the Inquisition took over, and they answered to no one.
N’Kalo had seen quarantine orders enforced before. He hoped that everyone had got off Molikor safely. Though he had little love for the Parliamentarians, once the lead conspirators had been weeded out those who remained would be largely blameless Imperial citizens. The Inquisition would quarantine the world, destroy the spaceport and let it be known that it was forbidden thanks to the bizarre warp disturbance beneath its crust that caused it to spew its dead out as mindless facsimiles. The Parliamentarians who had sought to exploit the pit would be tried, questioned and probably executed for dabbling so willingly in matters of the warp. N’Kalo did not think much about their fates. Worse things happened to better people with every moment in the Imperium. He would not waste his thoughts on them. This was a grim business, but he had faith that this was the way it had to be.
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