Whispers

by Alec Worley

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  Whispers – Alec Worley

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  A Black Library Publication

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  Whispers

  Alec Worley

  Marcus Amouris bounded up the steps of the village shrine and appealed for calm as the Thunderhawk circled overhead. The ship’s sudden appearance, materialising out of the early morning mist like some mythological bird of prey, had interrupted the tribe’s dawn rituals and driven them into a panic. Mothers screamed, racing from the doorways of their huts to retrieve awestruck children from the storm of leaves and dirt churning beneath the transporter’s powerful turbines. The menfolk had already gathered into a mob, brandishing hunting mattocks as they beat their chests and bellowed challenges at the hovering vessel. The village shaman huddled on his knees, absorbed in frantic prayer to his obsolete deity.

  Marcus tried not to smile. He always savoured this moment, when the scales finally fell from the eyes of the converted and they beheld the glorious light of the Emperor for the first time.

  ‘People of the Sundered Claw,’ he bellowed, his weathered robes snapping in the booming downdraught. ‘Your faith in me this season has been rewarded.’

  He had mastered the nuances of the local dialect within weeks. His genius for languages had not dimmed in the years since he was an orphan boy, studying at one of the holy academies of the Schola Progenium.

  His strident voice caught the ears of the tribe’s chieftain, a brute almost the size of a greenskin and flanked as always by his two hulking champions. The chieftain raised his ceremonial mattock – the Sundered Claw itself, its head fashioned from the talon of some prehistoric beast – as he roared for silence. All who heard it ceased their clamour and stood, squinting into the wind, all eyes on the Imperial missionary as he continued.

  ‘The curse upon your sacred forest shall soon be lifted,’ cried Marcus. ‘Your noble hunters shall be preyed upon no more.’

  He gestured with a flourish towards the Thunderhawk, as though he had conjured it into existence. ‘Did I not promise an end to your famine? Did I not promise deliverance?’

  The ship continued to circle the village, surveying the scene below. Its thrusters tore the mist into curling shreds, revealing the peninsula of low hills that opened to the south, then whipping the branches of the fathomless pine forest that otherwise enclosed the village like a bulwark.

  ‘Your honoured ancestors called the same god by many names,’ said Marcus. ‘The Grey Father, Cloudbearer, Ward of the Forest. But he has answered my prayers, granted me a portion of his command, because I know his true name.’

  Marcus looked out over a sea of starving, enraptured faces, gazing at him like children spellbound by a campfire tale. Marcus welcomed the force of their attention. He absorbed their devotion like warmth, feeling something nourished deep within him.

  ‘And this is my gift to you,’ he said. ‘Your god’s true name…’ He paused, relishing the moment’s tension. ‘The Emperor.’

  They gasped on cue. Several dropped to their knees as if with the weight of their revelation. The shaman was speaking into the ear of the perplexed chieftain. Ignoring them, Marcus singled out a thin woman nearby clutching her wailing child, her cheeks gaunt from weeks of hunger. He reached towards her with a gesture of entreaty.

  ‘And the Emperor does not stand by while the children of his disciples starve.’

  He indicated the Thunderhawk once again as he addressed the rest of the tribe, directing the force of his words at the chieftain.

  ‘The Emperor has despatched a band of mighty celestial warriors, brave men whom he has sent to purge evil from your hunting grounds.’

  The Thunderhawk finally peeled away towards a low hill outside the village. Marcus beamed at the thought of introducing the wide-eyed chieftain to a platoon of Imperial Guard: strangely armoured warriors summoned out of the sky. The tribe had never seen guns before and Marcus planned on ordering the squad to shoot a volley of las-fire into the air, overawing the tribe with a demonstration of the Emperor’s might.

  As the dust subsided, Marcus got his first clear view of the Thunderhawk as it prepared to land on the tallest of the nearby hills. His face fell at the sight of the two crimson and black Rhino transporters the ship had clamped to its belly.

  Emblazoned upon the side of both vehicles was a white fleur de lys.

  Euphoria melted into panic as he leaped down the steps of the wooden shrine. His mouth was dry, his voice trembling as he hurriedly warned the tribe to remain within the village, not to venture near the ship until he had greeted the visiting warriors and assured them of the tribe’s faith. He pushed past several bemused tribespeople as he ran to the hill, his heart pounding, cursing whichever fool in the orbiting watch station had relayed his orders to the Ministorum.

  He had requested assistance over two weeks ago, during which time he had been left to wonder whether his summons had been forgotten or relayed at all through his barely functioning vox-caster. The village food stores had continued to run low and the shaman had been asking too many questions, muttering too often into the chieftain’s ear. Skilled though he was in creative hyperbole, the missionary had found himself running out of excuses.

  Marcus reached the crest of the hill. He gripped his knees, panting as the Thunderhawk’s front ramp yawned before him.

  A towering figure in ebon power armour descended towards him, a scarlet tabard flowing from her waist. The woman wore a pistol holstered on her right hip; the beaded chain of an Imperial rosarius swung at the other. She wore her black hair short and straight, cut in the severe fashion of the Adepta Sororitas, the Sisters of Battle.

  Her squad followed close behind, their boots clattering upon the metal ramp. The Battle Sisters were smaller than the monstrous Space Marines, but no less intimidating. Some carried bolters, their faces bare, expressions pitiless, eyes eerily intense. Others were encased entirely within their black power armour, faces hidden behind white crested visors as they hefted double-barrelled storm bolters.

  The hazy morning sunlight revealed their commander’s face. She was pale as marble, sculpted yet scarred, a dark Y-shaped fissure running down one side of her face. She halted at the foot of the ramp and gazed at Marcus, her face immobile, eyes vivid green and unreadable. They were heavy-lidded as if with weariness, arched black eyebrows twin peaks of disdain. If her breath had not smoked in the cold air, Marcus felt he could have mistaken her for a statue.

  ‘Ave Imperator,’ she said, her lips motionless. Her voice emanated from a vox-grille in her sculpted gorget, the device giving her words a haunting metallic resonance. She continued: ‘I am Sister Adamanthea, Dominion Superior. I am told you need me to kill something.’

  Marcus saw the two-handed hilt of the immense eviscerator chainsword she had clamped to her back. He felt suddenly nauseous and forced himself to speak before fear could prevent him.

  ‘Blessed Sister,’ he said, attempting a smile. ‘You are a heartening sight indeed for a weary pilgrim. But I’m afraid there has been an error. I requested a detachment of Astra Militarum, and did so for a crucial reason.’

  Adamanthea’s expression remained glacial.

  ‘Are you questioning the decision of the Ecclesiarchy?’

  Her left cheek bore the tattoo of a single red tear, an icon of the Order of the Valorous Heart, whose Battle Sisters were infamous for the paranoid nature of their zealotry. Marcus had heard tales that these women could literally see sin radiating like an aura from the weak and faithless.

  ‘I question nothing, Sister,’ he stuttered. ‘I only serve. I am merely suggesting that our masters may not have be
en made aware of the delicacy of this undertaking.’

  He turned to see the tribe approaching the hill. Cold fear swam through Marcus’ veins as he saw the shaman babbling and gesticulating at the Battle Sisters. The chieftain, his lumbering champions and the village hunters followed close behind. The sight of the women stopped every one of them in their tracks and their expressions curdled with outrage.

  ‘Sister,’ said Marcus hurriedly. ‘You must understand, these people are simple-minded barbarians. Such are their savage traditions, their sacred forest may be entered only by men! To contravene this law is an affront tantamount to blasphemy.’

  Marcus cried out as Adamanthea strode past him towards the gathering mob. The squad remained as he hurried after her, cursing.

  ‘This tribe dominates all others in this region,’ he told her, struggling to contain his rage. ‘The Missionarus Galaxia has calculated that their conversion will spread the Imperial Creed across the entire continent within a generation. Your presence here risks undoing all I have achieved thus far.’

  ‘Stay back,’ she told him as they neared the tribe.

  The shaman rushed forward, halting Marcus, gibbering curses in his face. The gathered tribesmen stared in both dismay and wonder as the Dominion Superior strode towards the appalled chieftain. The brute snorted with fury, folding his arms as his two champions advanced towards her, casually swinging their vicious tools. They were burly, bear-like men, hulks of scar and muscle, veterans of the countless wars of aggression waged upon neighbouring tribes. Sister Adamanthea ignored them as she continued towards their chieftain.

  Marcus watched, helpless, months of work about to be demolished by capricious violence. The champions sauntered towards Adamanthea, confident their threatening presence alone would deter the woman. But still she advanced on their chieftain as though neither guardian existed.

  One of the men went to grab her shoulder. The motion seemed to animate Adamanthea; her aura of stillness suddenly vanished as she flinched away from the champion’s outstretched paw. Snatching the brute’s wrist, she drove her power-armoured forearm into his elbow, snapping the limb in an explosion of screams and splintered bone.

  She was on the other man before he could bury his mattock in her shoulder, her hands shooting past his guard like striking snakes, closing the distance before he could land a blow. Grabbing the weapon, she wrenched it from his grip with a savage motion, then swung the pommel upwards into his teeth with force enough to hurl him senseless onto his back. She cast the weapon aside as she stepped over his body and the enraged chieftain charged at her, swinging the Sundered Claw about his head.

  Adamanthea drew her bolt pistol and shot him in the foot.

  The chieftain shrieked and fell to the ground, his tribesmen screaming in primal terror as the pistol’s bark echoed over the hills like thunder. They cowered before Adamanthea, their chieftain still howling, staring with horrified eyes at the bloody wreck that dangled from the end of his leg. Marcus was surprised to feel a surge not of rage, but of anguished envy. What a thing it must be to inspire awe by force of arms alone.

  Adamanthea turned to Marcus.

  ‘I did not come here to play with savages,’ she said, her face a mask of tranquillity, oblivious to the spray of blood that now freckled her cheek. ‘I came to destroy whatever is preying upon them.’

  She marched back up the hill towards the ship, adding, ‘I require further instruction, Brother Marcus. Quickly, for the Emperor’s time is precious.’

  As a missionary, Marcus was accustomed to closed minds and knew the futility of chiding the Battle Sister for her recklessness. At least she had left the tribe in no doubt of the Emperor’s power. He felt another rush of envy and cursed himself at having to scurry after her like a lackey. The tribe retreated further back, carrying their wounded chieftain with them, as the two Rhinos crawled out from beneath the Thunderhawk, their engines rumbling like beasts hungry for war.

  Standing nearby, Adamanthea surveyed the immeasurable forest. Dark spires of pine gradually faded into mist until the vast mountains beyond were but ghosts. Strange birds crossed a cold white sky.

  ‘Sister Adamanthea,’ said Marcus, joining her as he stifled his lingering annoyance and mustered his most authoritative tone. ‘I studied this region extensively prior to my departure and suspect an indigenous predator to be the source of our troubles. The mountain region to the north is home to several carnivorous species affected by a diminished source of prey. I’m certain one or several such creatures have migrated to this area in search of food.’

  ‘Bodies?’

  ‘None. Every group of hunters sent into the forest to search for their brethren has failed to return.’

  One of the Sisters approached to confirm the squad’s readiness. Adamanthea nodded and gave the order to embark.

  ‘The coordinates you gave us point to ancient ruins, brother,’ she said, as they walked to the lead Rhino. ‘The Ecclesiarchy believe they are almost certainly Imperial. Our historians say this world was civilised millennia ago during the Reign of Thor.’

  ‘My studies brought me to precisely the same conclusion,’ said Marcus. ‘However, the tribe know the site as “the City of Whispers”. They regard it as a fearful place, and believe their men were spirited away by ghosts. Now none of them dare enter the forest. They’d prefer to starve to death than be dragged to hell.’

  ‘Local superstitions may harbour ruinous truths,’ said Adamanthea, her disembodied voice ringing like steel as her mouth tightened into a frown. ‘Did you not think to summon the Inquisition?’

  ‘The Emperor’s time is precious, as you say,’ he said, offering an innocent smile. ‘I wouldn’t think to waste it when so much evidence points to natural causes. The site is located near a major water source drawing abundant prey, making the ruins a natural lair for any mountain-dwelling predator such as the glacies lupus or the common lacundum ursus.’

  Adamanthea’s impatient scowl pleased him.

  ‘Hunting beasts is a base labour, Sister,’ said Marcus, nodding sympathetically. ‘Wholly unworthy of the Adepta Sororitas, but fides ante vanitas. “Faith before vanity,” I always say.’

  Adamanthea nodded towards a figure bearing baggage nearby. It was the young tribeswoman whom Marcus had chosen to school as his maidservant. He reluctantly bid her approach. She was pretty and full-figured, despite the ravages of hunger. Marcus tried to ignore Adamanthea’s penetrating gaze as the girl bowed low, her eyes downcast as she handed him his flak jacket. He took his coat and stopped her as she tried to kneel and kiss his hand.

  ‘“Faith before vanity,” indeed,’ said Adamanthea. She watched Marcus flush with embarrassment as he dismissed the girl, snatching his backpack and the cloth wrap containing his lasrifle. The girl retreated with an extravagant curtsy, which Marcus now sorely regretted teaching her.

  ‘Clearly you are an asset to these people,’ said Adamanthea. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you stayed behind.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Marcus, irritated as he fished a painted claw from inside his vestment. ‘You see this pendant? It is a totem of honour worn by every hunter. It means I have sworn an oath to these people to enter the forest, confront their enemies and return triumphant. Though it embarrasses me, I am forced to abide by their ridiculous traditions if I have any hope of guiding them into the light.’

  Adamanthea had already turned to follow the last of her squad into the back of the Rhino. Taking her silence for acquiescence, Marcus went to follow her up the ramp when she turned and addressed him, her voice a tinny hiss.

  ‘I heard that you united the warring hordes of Kordaius Quintus, brokered peace between them in the name of the Emperor. I also heard that you are now worshipped among them as a prophet of – some would say excessive – renown.’ She leaned in. ‘Do you believe a person of weak character might develop a taste for such adoration?’

 
‘I believe they might, Sister,’ said Marcus coolly. ‘I have seen valour turn to vanity in many a warrior. But, of course, superbia vocat corruptionem. “Pride beckons corruption.” Words spoken by Sister Lucia, the founding saint of your Order, I believe.’

  ‘Sage words indeed,’ said Adamanthea with menace, her green eyes gleaming as she studied him. Marcus failed to stifle a shudder as she unhooked the eviscerator from her back. The blade’s purity seals fluttered stiffly in the breeze, dark with dried blood. She ducked inside the transport, taking the seat nearest the door.

  Marcus huddled into a space near the driver’s hatch, struggling to dismiss the sting of Adamanthea’s words. These Battle Sisters were as brutish as Space Marines, as ignorant as the savages he had devoted his life to enlightening. What did this Sister Adamanthea know of the nuances of converting a populace? He knew that mere men were not enough to inspire the masses, to prompt unwavering devotion to the Throne. No – the people needed legends. Heroes of song and saga, vision and valour.

  He allowed himself a tight smile and looked over at Adamanthea as the ramp closed, activating the photon-candles set in the recesses of the Rhino’s interior. Like the rest of her squad, she was already deep in prayer, touching her forehead to the hilt of her eviscerator, oblivious to all but her own devotions. Marcus could sense her dormant vitality radiating like heat.

  Prove your worth, Marcus Amouris. The notion came to him as clearly as if someone had whispered it in his ear. He nodded to himself, swaying in his seat as the Rhino thundered down the hill, towards the forest.

  ‘With me,’ barked a voice.

  Marcus woke from a heavy doze to find himself addressed by a lone Battle Sister. She was young, smooth-skinned, but with a thick scar across her crumpled nose. She motioned with her bolter, urging him towards the open ramp and the brightness of the world outside. He blinked and gathered himself, embarrassed at having fallen asleep, unwrapping his lasrifle and strapping on his pack as he followed her, wincing at the cramp in his legs.