by Warhammer
Although the rictus of her skull mask remained fixed, the slight angle of Hel’s head gave it the impression of confusion. Her voice sounded hurt. ‘You needed me.’
‘But how, Hel? How did you know I was in trouble?’
The head twitched again, jerky like before, an expression of incredulity.
‘I think I felt it.’
Morgravia frowned, walking past her to appraise the darkened town, wondering if Hel was in fact a latent psyker, but the idea didn’t resonate despite the ambiguity of her fractured memory.
It was quiet out in the beyond. Deathly so. Meagre had become a tomb, fit only for the dead. Morgravia stared down the darkness. They had waited here long enough.
‘Have I disappointed you?’ asked the assassin, interrupting her thoughts.
Morgravia shook her head. She caught a whiff of Hel’s odour near to her, the scent of charnel houses, the sweat of exertion. For a moment she had the distinct impression that the assassin might be reaching out to touch her or leaning in to smell her. ‘It’s just another unanswered question.’
She turned but Hel remained as she had been, having adopted a coy, almost childlike mien.
‘This is escalating. I need answers.’
‘Did you meet with the Broker? Can we trust her?’
The data-smith had yet to tell her where she would find the Empath. Given the current state of things, Morgravia supposed she could be forgiven for abandoning the idea in favour of self-preservation, but she needed her mind back. It mattered, she knew this much. Some small ember of urgency flared at the thought, a memory still without form, though the importance of its recovery impressed itself upon her.
‘Almost certainly not, but she’s desperate enough to deal. That’s longer term. I need an edge now. Something that gets us closer.’
‘Am I to hunt?’
Morgravia considered it. Having Hel by her side yielded obvious advantages, but the assassin made her uneasy, and finding the ones hunting her had become a priority.
A slow nod saw Hel disappear back into the dark.
Chapter XII
No choice left
The dead lay heaped in front of the bar, right where Barak had left them. Foolish to think they would do anything other than simply be, but he had seen things very recently that had put his mortal preconceptions to the question. In any event, they were still there. Bodies entangled with bodies, human and inhuman alike. The sight of it appalled Barak, but served as a stark reminder of watching as his two hefter-servitors hauled out the corpses.
He and Drover had found Veran and the others who had become part of the horde. It didn’t feel right to let the servitors take them. They were lumbering, indelicate things, prone to shovelling the bodies, mass piles of them and their constituent parts, pushing them out into the street to fester. Barak picked up what was left of Veran, weeping as he did so, not just for the man but for everything he had lost, for what might become of Jana. It was bitter to think that Veran’s sacrifice might have merely forestalled the inevitable.
It was grim work, and the smell would linger on long after. It had to be done though, to leaven the smell inside if nothing else. The bodies would have to be burned. He wanted to burn his clothes too but he had no spares. Fear had kept the pyre unlit, fear of what the smoke or fire might bring.
The night harboured a threat Barak could not see but knew was there. A disconcerting quiet had descended over the town, and he stood upon his stoop listening to it. He lit a stick of tabac, and was taking a deep draw to steady his nerves when he saw the light.
Bright and crimson, it coloured the sky as far as he could see before fading back into darkness. Barak moved down off the stoop, squinting for the light. It returned, as vibrant as before, red ink distilled in water. A blood drop expanding, reddening the clouds. Barak winced as a shriek split the night, so loud, so appallingly loud after the silence. It ended as abruptly as it had begun, and then faintly – barely audible despite the returning stillness, and therefore distant – there came a rumble. Barak imagined churned earth, the cracking of stone.
Digging…?
He doubted the mining consortiums of Low Sink would be operating. Their owners would have fled uphive by now to escape the terror.
Raised voices emanated from within the bar, briefly arresting Barak’s attention, as the others argued around their petty agendas. Tension lingered in the air like an uninvited guest. Death roamed Meagre. For now its shadow had moved on, but it was still out there somewhere, amidst the ghost town of empty buildings and silent streets.
The light did not return a third time. A glint of metal caught his eye instead. It came from a ringed finger, the hand it belonged to curled by death into a claw. It had flopped out from beneath its rough shawl, the gem upon the band a vivid green.
Deciding he had been out on the stoop long enough, Barak returned to the bar.
The stench of blood and decay remained.
It was over, Barak knew that. Assuming he survived whatever followed, Hallow’s End would not. Had not. It bore a taint, something foul and as indelible as memory that could never be removed. It had endured fire and flood, gang war and taxation, but not this. Whatever this was had ended it.
Jana was where he had left her, resting in a leather-backed chair in one of the booths. She slept fitfully, Maela by her side, gently holding her hand. Barak nodded to her as he crossed the threshold and she smiled back, mustering a grace he had, to his shame, thought a courtesan slaved to Fharkoum incapable of.
He gave a furtive glance to the shadows at the periphery of the room, relieved to find the morbid effigy still absent. She had exuded menace, that assassin, intentionally or not. He had seen what she had done to the pallid and wasn’t ashamed to admit it scared the shit out of him. He had met killers. He had put some of them away, and others in the dirt. In low-hive, mankind’s many depredations found expression. But he had never encountered anyone like that, so uniquely disposed to the art of killing. So, although the assassin had departed, Barak stayed alert like a man who has lost track of a wild beast but knows it could return at any moment.
A few of the others had gathered around a table, one still left more or less in one piece.
Earlier, Barak had found some old sodium lamps in the storeroom and their flickering glow illuminated an old, waxy map Drover had weighed down with coins and tankards. They had all become acquainted in the short time after, exchanging names and sometimes greetings, as if any of that really mattered any more. Mankind will find comforts where it may, he supposed, and approached the table.
‘Getting to the precinct house won’t be easy,’ Drover was saying. ‘This road,’ he pointed to the map, tracing a gloved finger down the map, ‘is the most direct route but that makes it the busiest. The place is a fortress, no way it’s been breached.’ He looked up as Barak stepped up. ‘Let’s hope your old comrades are in a charitable mood and open up for us.’
‘I can get them to open the gate,’ said Barak, with more confidence that he felt. He would have to trade on his old alliances, and even then he couldn’t seriously vouch for everyone in the room. As long as he and Jana were safe…
Another agenda, he thought. I’m no better than the rest of them.
The precinct district had a walled border dividing it from the rest of low-hive, handy in the event of a block riot or a gang war. A single high-sided gate was the only way in. Two guard towers manned by snipers and auto-turrets maintained overwatch. A kill box extended outwards from the wall for over a hundred and fifty feet.
Drover regarded Barak keenly, as if measuring the truth in his words. ‘Then I feel better already,’ he said, the smile he gave not reaching his eyes.
Fharkoum barked something in his native tongue. Apparently, he had tired of speaking Gothic.
He sat at a remove from the others, resting against the wall, sweating and drinking. The mans
ervant, Kharata, stood close and translated for his master.
‘Our business is not with the proctors.’
Drover leaned back to put his booted feet up onto the table, one after the other, and crossed them. ‘Anyone would think you’re avoiding the upholders of the Lex.’
‘Do you trust them?’ asked Kharata.
‘That’s hardly the point, is it? I don’t trust you,’ then he gestured to Fharkoum who was muttering something to himself, or at least that’s how it appeared, ‘and I really don’t trust him. But there’s no staying here for any of us.’
Fharkoum scoffed, deigning to speak. ‘I have no business with proctors,’ he said.
‘Nor do I,’ said the Broker, who sat opposite Drover, the epitome of poise and studied neutrality. She and Fharkoum shared a glance and Barak sensed a deal had been made between them. ‘This crisis could be over in hours, days, it might already be.’
‘If you truly believed that you would have already left,’ Drover replied.
‘Remember who is paying you,’ the Broker said, the threat more than implied.
Drover appeared unconcerned. ‘Your coin buys my gun arm, not my free will.’ He flicked a glance at the sommelier standing behind her. It looked nondescript enough, but he evidently knew better.
The Broker didn’t press the issue. ‘Regardless, I need the inquisitor before I can leave,’ she countered. ‘I am still owed.’
‘A debt I swore would be paid in full,’ said Morgravia, having overhead everything. She stopped in the doorway. They had raised the blast door manually, using a crank located in the storeroom, and the wan light from outside framed her imposing silhouette. ‘It will be,’ she promised, moving inside.
She looked pale, almost haunted, and Barak wondered if the ‘abyss’ she had spoken of earlier had begun to show its toll. He hadn’t forgotten her collapsing during the fight, but had chosen not to mention it.
‘But we can’t stay here any longer,’ said Morgravia. ‘Meagre is without power, maybe all of Low Sink. It is also seemingly without order. Whether this crisis has abated or not, a different one will have arisen to replace it or complicate it further. The precinct house is close. It has troops and weapons. We have discussed this.’
‘In actual fact, you declared it,’ said the Broker.
Morgravia pressed on, ignoring the discontent. ‘We head there, find out what the proctors know. If you want to leave after that… No one will stop you.’
The Broker bowed her acquiescence but Barak didn’t think she looked placated.
‘You, inquisitor…’ uttered the fat merchant, sweaty and dishevelled. He inflected the word so it sounded like an expletive rather than a form of address. Contempt tightened the inquisitor’s face. ‘What is all of this…’ he gestured to the blood and the strings of viscera still gumming up the partly sealed blast door, ‘…shit.’
He sneered at Morgravia, and she returned the sentiment, her eyes narrowing to knife-slits.
‘Beyond your understanding,’ she said.
Barak could see Fharkoum rooting through the shadows with his eyes, trying to determine if the assassin was still nearby. He wondered what the merchant was thinking – if, via his hired gun, he would be bold enough to try anything. He looked scared, and scared men were prone to making poor decisions.
‘I’ve seen something like this before,’ Drover cut in, forestalling the need for violence. ‘Out in the herds. Called it the ravening. Beasts eating beasts, foaming, raging. Messy. Never heard of it being passed on to humans though.’
Ravening, thought Barak, always such colourful names.
‘You might be thinking about getting out of low-hive,’ said Morgravia, apparently uninterested in whatever bestial ague Drover had encountered in his past. ‘A sane idea. But the border gate is several districts away, and I can vouch for what’s between here and there. Even assuming the mag-trans still functions, and that’s a large ask, it’s a distance.’ She met Barak’s gaze, and he imagined she must have seen it falter when he realised Morgravia alluded to the possibility of Jana never surviving such a journey. ‘Precinct house is reachable, and it’s about the only safe haven left.’
Fharkoum muttered something to Kharata, the hired gun smiling coldly. Barak didn’t trust them and wondered how long the fragile alliance between the survivors would last. A barked invective then saw the courtesans scurrying to the fat merchant’s side. Maela sent a furtive glance to Barak, who nodded by way of silent gratitude.
Drover swung his feet off the table and stood.
‘It’s decided then,’ he said, flashing an adder’s smile at Barak. ‘We impose upon the lawmen, and hope they have kind hearts and a lot of fucking guns.’
The throaty growl of an engine had presaged the arrival of the Mule.
Drover had made some comment about its reliability, suggesting the vehicle was less than fit for purpose and should perhaps be sold off for parts, but it ran. And it looked tough.
It was a rig, an armoured truck, ostensibly used for riot suppression. Its flanks were shielded by metal plates, its hood fitted with a triangular dozer blade. Heavy, chained tyres tore up the ground, ripping furrows in the dirt as it came to a halt, and a pair of cowled lamps at the front cut through the dark like lances. A ladder unfolded down from the cabin to the ground. The cabin itself had enough room for six, two sitting up front and four behind. A flatbed trailer mounted onto the vehicle chassis could take more.
Barak drove, familiar with the vehicle’s operation. The Broker sat next to him. Fharkoum took up two seats in the back, the others going to Jana and Maela. The merchant didn’t much like being estranged from his hired gun, nor did Kharata for that matter, but there was little choice.
Morgravia stood up in the trailer, hands braced against the lipped edge. An acrid scent thronged the air, and as they got underway she followed the trailing smoke.
A fire burned. It had spread to the stoop, then crept further until the frontage of the bar crackled with flames. It was voracious, devouring bone and flesh. It ran rampant through old timber, catching on scraps of parchment and cloth. It rose up like a dark beacon, pluming with oily black clouds. Vortices of ash spiralled upwards, churning, growing. The breeze turned thick with the reek of pig fat, though it wasn’t pig but crackled and spat just the same. A thunderous boom resounded as the fire reached the alcohol and it cooked off.
‘Damn…’ Drover murmured, holding up a hand to ward off the heat and the glare of the fire.
Rain was falling. It hissed against the flames, a reaction of the mild toxins in the water.
As the distance grew and the sight of Hallow’s End became less and less distinct, Morgravia watched in silence as the two servitors they had left behind lit up. They stood like sentinels, unmoved by pain, unconcerned by the fire consuming them. As their sinews and wires blackened away, one of the servitors collapsed to its knees and then plunged forwards. Its skin was burning. The other followed swiftly afterwards, just two more bodies for the pyre.
The smoke billowed, drifting until it cloaked the bar from sight.
Chapter XIII
Hollow
The rain felt good against Cristo’s skin. It vented from the upper strata of the hive and possessed low-level alkalinity, a product of atmospheric compressors and colossal air filtration. The rich would breathe clean, pure air with all its harmful elements extracted, while the working poor would make do with less. At least it was cooling and kept him awake.
Fatigue gnawed at his body. His muscles ached. His limbs dragged as he walked and he didn’t dare put Karina down for fear he wouldn’t be able to pick her up again, such was the stiffness in his arms. They had fled through Meagre, dead-legged, pushing on through raw adrenaline and terror. The town was abandoned, offering nothing but silence and the slow creak of vendor signs or the scuttle of refuse stirring on the breeze. It was quiet enough to hear the ap
proach of the horde, slower than before, though they had yet to see it, its feral groaning more laboured.
That and that alone had given them the slightest of chances to reach Hallow’s End.
Cristo stumbled then righted himself, belatedly noticing Celestia standing by his side. She had sheathed the sword, and wrapped both her arms around Cristo’s thick bicep to help keep him on his feet. He nodded, too tired to speak, and held up his face to the alkali rain, unconcerned by the gentle stinging against his skin.
‘How far?’ Her voice came out a weakened rasp.
Close, thought Cristo, I hope it’s close. Then he smelled the ash and soot on the air.
‘God Emperor… no,’ he croaked, and tried to run. He staggered, stride leaden, hot agony searing through his limbs.
Celestia staggered with him, half pushing, half dragged, her own reserves of strength way past the redline. She gasped, a starved breath. A grunt of pain.
Then came the end of hope.
Emerging from an alleyway, Cristo stopped dead. Unprepared for the abrupt halt, Celestia bundled into him.
The rain had doused much of the fire. It crackled in embers now but must once have raged like an inferno. Hallow’s End was gone; it had simply ceased to be, and in its place remained a shadow, a hollow and burnt-out shell. Blackened timbers reached up, splintered like broken bones. Soot smeared and funereal, the stone and metal had endured, though both were cracked and warped by heat.
Cristo staggered on. He felt Celestia’s arms untether from his own and heard the dull thud of her body as she crumpled to the ground. He took another step, two more, the fire-gouged ruin almost goading him. He came upon two bodies at the periphery, the corroded machine parts amongst their bones revealing them as servitors.
Cristo passed them. He still had Karina in his arms, unable, unwilling to put her down.
She stirred then, coughing from the smoke that lingered throughout the devastation. It curled, grey and black, phantasmal in the falling rain.
