Deathwatch: Warrior Coven Part 11

I have no doubts about it, seer. Lelithas thoughts eased back into Bhurolynas mind, hissing like a snake, but she did not turn to face him. She could feel him inhaling her scent and she pretended to be preoccupied with the procession of mon-keigh.

Are you satisfied that we have upheld our end of the bargain? Never ask a darkling wych whether you have given her enough.

Very slowly, Lelith turned to face the Seer of the Sacred Star, bringing her own staggeringly beautiful features directly into his face so that he could feel her breath against his skin. She could see his excited blue eyes widen in thrilled surprise. The eldar of Ulthwe had a very different concept of personal s.p.a.ce from the wyches of Hesperax, for whom intimacy was a proper aspect of everyday communication.

Lelith knew that a female eldar might never have stood this close to Bhurolyn in his entire life. She eyed him up and down as though for the first time, taking his measure: aside from his glorious sapphire robe, which she noticed matched that of his apprentice, he was a dishevelled and unattractive figure. His physique was poor, even for a pathetic lightling seer: he was clearly advanced in age and his sedentary lifestyle had not helped him to stay in shape.

The lightlings were usually slender and fit creatures, but this one had a belly and the remnants of what were once muscles hung loosely from his skeleton. Set deeply into his gaunt face, his eyes were bright with knowledge, but they burned with the kind of innocence that Lelithas soul cried out to violate. If this was the best that Ulthran could muster, perhaps she should not have agreed a bargain with the wily old fa.r.s.eer after all. I am never satisfied. It was true. Bhurolynas eyebrows twitched slightly, as though the reply had surprised or t.i.tillated him. Lelith could see the strain across his features as he fought the conflicting urge to step back and the desire to remain where he stood.

As she watched him, the sense of frivolity that had pervaded her mood began to wane. This creature was not worthy of her attention, even of this kind of flippant flirtation. She simply could not believe that this was the best that Ulthran could send. He was weak and pathetic. Even standing in his face made his soul quake with emotions that he could neither recognise nor control. His mind was full of anxiety, even to the point of hysteria. This seer might be knowledgeable and useful on a council for the cowardly Ulthwe, but he was less than nothing to Lelith.

Why are you here, Bhurolyn of the Sacred Star?

I came to bring you your sacrifices, Lelith, at the request of the mighty Ulthran himself. His reply was full of pride, and Lelith even thought that she could see his chest swell slightly as he thought of the ancient fa.r.s.eer.

Does it not strike you as odd, seer of Ulthwe, that your prisoner required an escort? If thoughts could smile, then the vague beginnings of a grin were creeping into Lelithas.

Bhurolyn paused for a moment, thoughtful and quiet. He was finding it difficult to concentrate with Lelithas breath caressing his cheeks. No. The psyker broke away from the rest of the mon-keigh, just as Ulthran said that he would. While Shariele and Dhrykna escorted the rest, Xhelkisor and I would escort this one. Consistency is the soul partner of good sense, after all.

Lelith gave him an incredulous and slightly repulsed look. She often wondered how the lightlings could survive according to their pithy maxims and pathetic codes, but she had never come across any of her pale cousins who would dare to quote them directly to her. There was only a small logical step between such cheap wisdom and a sermon on the merits of the Path of the Eldar, and if this seer started down that road with her she would kill him herself, Slaanesh be d.a.m.ned.

Before she responded, Lelithas lip curled into an involuntary snarl as she let her mind wander towards the laughable Path of the Eldar. She had been there all those millennia before when the great and the wise had constructed the path. She had seen them b.u.mbling and conniving in short-sighted foolishness. Even now she could not believe that the craftworld eldar had so easily and voluntarily surrendered their natures and their potential, all in the name of cowardice. Ulthran had been the worst of them, fleeing into the darkest reaches of s.p.a.ce and hobbling his own people so that they could not fight the great enemy even if the elusive craftworld of Ulthwe was ever found. And now look what he sends to Lelith, Wych Queen of Strife, a pathetic, weak and feeble-minded fool.

But why, my dear misguided Bhurolyn? Why did the mon-keigh require escorts at all? Were not my wyches there with you? Was it not they who captured and restrained the primitive humans? It was like talking to a child.

Confusion appeared on the seeras face. It started on his brow, furrowed and tense, and then spread across his features, knotting crowas feet into the corners of his eyes and tweaking the edges of his mouth.

There, thought Lelith to herself. At last he is beginning to see.

You mean Yes, I mean that you are part of the bargain, seer of Ulthwe. Your precious Lord Ulthran has sent your souls to seal the deal, although I cannot imagine that they are worth very much. It is actually rather insulting for us both.

The Seer of the Sacred Star looked dumbfounded as Lelith turned away from him dismissively and watched the Deathwatch Marines being formed into a line at the edge of the arena, awaiting her pleasure. They were an impressive if ramshackle sight a Lelith took a moment to hope that her new haemonculus had not damaged them.

Xhelkisor had advanced to the very lip of the platform and was peering down into the auditorium with an expression that suggested she saw it as little more than a pit of filth. She had been excluded from the exchange between her master, Bhurolyn, and the wych queen, and so had become bored. Now she stood with her back to them, gazing down at the blood-lined arena, waiting for something to justify her presence. In amongst the line of the mon-keigh barbarians, she could see the brilliance of Dhryknaas Aspect Armour shimmering and white like a pearl of guilt. She had not yet seen the pale shock that had descended across Bhurolynas face. So, when she felt the gentle prod of Lelithas stiletto pointed heel push into the back of her knee, causing her leg to buckle and her balance to fail, she had no idea that she was being cast down into the repugnant arena below on purpose.

The young seer hit the ground hard, snapping her left leg in two places and crumpling into a bleeding heap. As she looked back up the sheer wall at the side of the arena with the jeering cries of the a.s.sembled darklings coruscating in her ears, she saw the magnificent, ceremonial robes of Bhurolyn fluttering on the lip of Lelithas platform, transforming him into the image of a ma.s.sive, flightless bird. His heels were already hanging over the drop, and only the toes of his thin boots had any purchase on the wych queenas platform. For a moment, the wheeling actions of his arms seemed to defeat the force of gravity, and the Seer of the Sacred Star teetered on the brink. Xhelkisor could imagine the expression on the old eldaras face, his eyes bulging with panic as he realised that the council had betrayed him and that he was about to fall dozens of storeys into a darkling fighting pit.

Watching the flailing old seer tumble and flutter as he fell, Xhelkisor reflected that there were worse ways for a craftworld eldar to die. Although her body was broken already, and she had no hope of survival let alone victory in the arena, she knew that her death was required for the fulfilment of Lord Ulthranas grand design.

There was a kind of cold solace in the realisation that her life was not being discarded meaninglessly, even though it was being discarded by the Seer Council of Ulthwe. She had watched Shariele of the Undercouncil incinerate himself in the flames of his own power, and she had not felt even a twinge of pity. She had known that his death was necessary for the good of Ulthwe and she had known that he would have given his life willingly if only he had been asked. Standing over amid the mon-keigh, Xhelkisor could only imagine that Dhrykna felt the same.

As Bhurolyn slammed into the ground next to her, throwing up a cloud of dust and blood, Xhelkisor considered how much better it would have been had someone actually asked them to perform this duty a but then, the council of Ulthran was never so straightforward. Deceit was part of the Eldar Way.

The darklings in the audience seemed to hold their breaths. There was a faint sn.i.g.g.e.ring, but a new aura of quiet antic.i.p.ation had spread around the stands.

Master Bhurolyn. Her thoughts were weak and without much hope. The old seer was weak and fragile, and she did not expert that he would have survived the fall. Master Bhurolyn, she repeated, pulling herself painfully up onto one foot and staring in horror at the mess that remained of her other leg.

As she limped and dragged herself over towards the cloud of dust and debris that marked her masteras landing site, the sound of heavy doors grinding open made her pause and look up. A huge crack had appeared in the wall underneath Lelithas platform and the great doors were slowly rolling open a threads of putrid smoke and fragmented beams of light were already spilling out of the widening gap. The audience could not stand the antic.i.p.ation anymore, and they started to scream and bray like excited animals.

The cloud of dust that had been kicked up by the impart of the Seer of the Sacred Star began to settle as Xhelkisor approached it. She narrowed her eyes against the swirling grit and steam, trying to discern the broken shape of Bhurolyn inside. The ground looked uneven and broken, strewn with fragmentary objects, and for a moment Xhelkisor wondered whether her masteras old, fragile body had simply disintegrated on impact, unable to withstand the trauma.

Xhelkisor. She recognised the thought tone instantly, but she could not understand where it was coming from. Xhelkisor, we will not survive this, and it seems that we were never supposed to. But we can make an end that will be worthy of the Sacred Star and of Ulthran himself. If the fa.r.s.eer chose us for this purpose, he must have had his reasons.

Xhelkisor looked around her, trying to catch a glimpse of Bhurolyn. His thoughts seemed strong and confident, in a way that she had never heard them before. The old seer was usually a b.u.mbling mess of anxieties and conventions. Listening to the strength of his convictions, she realised that Ulthranas decision to send him to Hesperax was not merely because he was an expendable old fool. The ancient fa.r.s.eer could see into the souls of every eldar, and he had known Bhurolyn for longer than Xhelkisor had even been alive a if anyone could see the nature of the seeras heart, it was Ulthran. Perhaps Bhurolyn was meant to be a last surprise for Lelith?

A silent pulse rolled through the ground, rippling out from the diminishing cloud that marked the point of Bhurolynas fall. It rolled through the arena, making its surface ripple and swell like water. Silence gripped the audience once again.

An explosion of light erupted, shrugging off the cloud of dust and filling the amphitheatre with the starkest shadows that it had seen in centuries. Hundreds of darklings gasped and shielded their eyes in admiration and horror.

The light vanished as quickly as it had appeared, as though being suddenly sucked back into its source like a kind of anti-explosion, leaving the dignified figure of Bhurolyn standing proudly in its epicentre, his long, luxurious sapphire cloak billowing out behind him. I have grown too old, Xhelkisor. Too old and weak. The council no longer respects me. How could I have hoped for a last chance of glory like this. My lord Ulthran can see into my heart, and he does great honour to this decrepit and dying body. I will not fail him, and I will not fail myself at the last.

With that, Bhurolyn punched forward and sent a javelin of power crackling through the arena. It slammed into the ma.s.sive, slowly opening doors and blew them apart, shattering them instantly and sending shards of metal and masonry flying around the amphitheatre like hail caught in a hurricane. Bring it on. His thoughts were impatient and his blue eyes burnt with violence. The crowd went wild.

The darkling guards were distracted as soon as the female seer had been pushed off the elevated platform. When the second seer crashed down into the arena with such drama, the excitable and distracted guards seemed to forget all about their prisoners, turning their backs on them to face the show: they were as good as dead anyway If there was anything that appealed more profoundly to the soul of a dark eldar wych than the prospect of visiting violence on prisoners, it was the actual occurrence of violence itself. Next to the unfolding drama in the arena, the mon-keigh prisoners just seemed uninteresting.

The great gladiatrix gates that were set into the wall beneath the queenas podium had been grinding open with ominous weight when the sapphire seer had reduced them to rubble. Three or four somersaulting wyches had already bounded out of the widening gap, spreading themselves around the perimeter of the arena to surround the two seers in the middle. In the black shadows beyond the half-ruined gates, the sound of heavy footfalls told everyone that the wyches were just the start of the show.

For all of his apparent frailties and cowardice, the male seer was ablaze with power and defiance. His hands burned with bolts of shaaiel, which he formed into spherical projectiles before launching them around the arena at the circling wyches. After a couple of dramatic trials, he had abandoned his a.s.sault on Lelithas podium in order to turn his attention to the immediate crisis that engulfed him.

Meanwhile, the injured and lame female seer was supporting her weight on the elongated leg bone of a recently deceased warp beast, using it like a crutch under one arm. With her other hand, she was spraying a hail of shaaiel shards around the arena, imitating the discharge of a shuriken cannon.

The amphitheatre was alive with the keening of the darkling audience and the fury of escalating combat in the arena itself. High above the tumult, Lelith stood gloriously on her blood-soaked platform, surveying the scene with a wide, wild and sinister grin drawn across her unspeakably beautiful face.

The Deathwatch Marines and Dhrykna of the Shining Path stood in a line behind the distracted guards. They were unhindered by nerve-pins and were struck with amazement by the events that were unfolding around them. It seemed that the council of Ulthwe had not only double-crossed its human partners in the Coven of Isha, but it had also betrayed its own seers, leaving them to die in sacrificial combat here on Sussarkhas Peak.

Without a word, Dhrykna darted forward, her now scarred and battle damaged white armour still glinting like a fleck of sullied innocence in the enshrouding darkness. She leapt into the air, clasping her hands around the head of one of the darkling guards in front of her as she twisted and spun over into the arena; she landed crisply in front of it, facing back to where its face should have been, but she held its now detached head clutched in her hands.

A dramatic second pa.s.sed before the darklingas decapitated body collapsed to the ground at Dhryknaas feet, and she s.n.a.t.c.hed its darkly glinting bladed weapon from its dead hands. Sparing a moment to nod a farewell to Octavius, she turned and dashed towards the centre of the arena where her fellow sacrificial eldar were fighting a glorious but losing battle.

At precisely the moment that the rest of the darkling guards realised that something had gone wrong, the Deathwatch Marines threw themselves forward, breaking the backs, necks and limbs of the slender aliens as though they were kindling. Without the constraints of the nerve-pins, the s.p.a.ce Marines were far stronger than the dark eldar wyches when it came to brute power, and the shock attack from behind afforded the aliens no chance to capitalise on their great speed and skill.

Instinctively, the Marines reached down and picked up the darklingsa weapons. Because there were so many more mined guards than prisoners, the team was able to equip itself with one weapon in each hand. Without pausing for discussion, Sulphus, Pelias and Luthar turned towards the doors through which they had been ushered into the arena, set on escaping the arena of death. This battle was between the eldar and their darkling cousins; it had nothing to do with them.

Kruidan, the Mantis Warrior whose egregious wounds had been painfully but carefully healed by the haemonculi so that he might suffer more greatly in the arena, turned to follow his battle-brothers, then he stopped. Because of the attentions of the haemonculi, he was without the armour that usually covered his upper body, and his pale, intricately tattooed flesh glistened in the half-light. Octavius, Atreus and Ashok had not moved; they were standing shoulder to shoulder and staring in at the figures of the embattled eldar. In a moment of realisation, the Mantis Warrior knew what they were about to do and he returned to his captainas side.

All around the auditorium, the dark eldar audience was alive with pa.s.sion, shrieking and braying like wild animals, seemingly unable to control their excitement about the ongoing battle in the arena.

Nonetheless, one or two pairs of glowering eyes had already turned towards the figures of the Deathwatch Marines. Fingers were beginning to point and a new wave of hysterical excitement seemed to ripple through the crowd. Not a single dark eldar in the stands reached for a weapon or vaulted down into the arena to confront the Marines; perhaps they thought it was all part of the show.

aThe sacrifice of those eldar is part of the dark queenas plan to free her daemon,a muttered Octavius, his barely audible voice tinged with disbelief about the conclusion to which his thoughts were racing. aWe must not permit the darklings to take their souls. Though they betrayed us, we are allies in this fight. There is a greater evil in the wings than the treachery of Ulthwe.a The others said nothing. They knew that their valiant captain was right, and they simply nodded their understanding, keeping their eyes fixed on the maelstrom of shrieks, warp fire and flashing blades that had filled the arena before them. After a second, Octavius raised his blades and roared his defiance into the arena, charging forward into the fray with his weapons lashing furiously around him. Immediately, Ashok and Atreus unleashed javelins of crackling power from the tips of their blades, and then stormed after their captain. Kruidan paused for a moment, struck through with admiration for the Imperial Fistsa unerring and clear-headed sense of duty. This mission was no longer about fulfilling the Coven, but about preventing its realisation.

Standing square with the field of battle, the Mantis Warrior dragged the tip of his stolen glaive diagonally across his chest, drawing a deep and symbolic gash through his flesh in the ritual manner of the Praying Mantidae. It was a sign that he was unconcerned by pain or death, even if death was ready and waiting for him. He took a breath, muttering a litany of composure and hate, and then he pounded into the arena after his battle-brothers.

Just as they reached the doors at the edge of the amphitheatre, Pelias, Luthar and Sulphus turned to see what was going on. They saw four glorious s.p.a.ce Marines ploughing through the thickening mire of combat, hacking and blasting their way through the wyches and snarling warp beasts, ablaze with heroism and battling towards the beleaguered eldar in the very centre of the ring. They paused as they realised what their selfless captain was doing and, one by one, they turned back into the arena, pangs of shame and disbelief intermixing with admiration in their souls.

By the time the remains of the ma.s.sive gladiatrix gates had finally ground open to their widest extent, the arena was already soaked with blood and strewn with the charred and hacked remains of half a dozen darkling wyches. The Deathwatch team and the eldar had formed a ring in the centre of the arena, each standing at anotheras back, forming a gravitational centre that seemed to suck the aliens into their doom, before scattering their bones out once again. It was as though all the darkness of Hesperax was being drawn towards them a with only the glinting shoulder plates of the Deathwatch and the radiant white of Dhrykna standing symbolically in the light.

Stolen blades flashed in the darkness, and jets of warp power lashed out of the phalanx of resistance.

aCaptain!a yelled Kruidan as he ducked smoothly under the sweep of a darkling blade, the emerald greens and golds of the Chapter emblem on his shoulder whirling into streams of colour as he spun. The noise was incredible and, having been dispossessed of their helmets by the haemonculi, the Marines had no vox-beads. aCaptain!a he yelled again, stabbing one of his own blades through the neck of a scarred and sneering face as it lurched towards him, its teeth dripping with thirst.

Octavius was busy. Both of the blades that he had stolen from the guards were now shattered and broken a little more than stumps of metal in his hands. He was fending off the a.s.sault of two wyches, parrying their weapons with the armoured plates on his forearms and waiting for a gap through which he could strike back. With a sudden movement, he trapped a wychas blade between his palm and his other forearm and then spun around the point of impact as though it were a pivot, snapping the blade in the middle as he turned. Completing his rotation, he clasped the broken end of the blade and drove it into the side of the wychas head. She wailed as her eyes filled with blood, and then slumped to the ground.

At the same instant, Octavius felt a sharp, piercing cold stab into his kidney from behind. He dropped his weight, forcing his a.s.sailant to either withdraw or drop the blade, and turned sharply, bringing the stump of his remaining weapon around in a crude arc. The wych was ready for his counter, and she sprang backwards out of reach, releasing her grip on the blade that still protruded from the captainas lower back.

Even against the hideous and constant roar of the crowd, Octavius and the others could make out a distinct cheer of excitement as that blade struck home in the Imperial Fistsa flesh. The a.s.sailant wych grinned maniacally, her eyes wild and burning with the thrill of combat and the narcosis of notoriety.

Pausing for a moment to take in the scene, Octavius saw that the crowd was still in the stands. They were full of excitement and approval, cheering and shrieking with ecstasy at the orgy of violence that was unfolding before them. Not one of them had descended into the arena and Octavius realised that this was exactly what they had all come to see: the human warriors doing battle against the gladiatrix wyches of Hesperax. Far from being an act of defiance, their battle was precisely what had been expected of them.

He roared in frustration. There was no way that he was going to stop fighting just to dispossess these vile creatures of their pleasure. He had spent his whole life in combat or in preparation for it, and he was not about to abandon himself to a weak and pathetic end. If these dark eldar wanted battle, he would give it to them, and he would teach them not to treat the Deathwatch as playthings in their barbaric games.

With another roar, he ripped the blade out of his flesh, tearing out a lump of abdomen and slicing off a section of his ceramite armour as he did so. The wych before him smiled, as though in approval that he had not been defeated by the poisoned surface of the curved sword. In mockery, Octavius smiled back and then hurled the sword. It spun end over end until stopping abruptly, impaled through the forehead of the still smiling wych.

Another ma.s.sive cheer exploded from the stands. It was as though the crowd could hardly contain its excitement.

aCaptain!a Octavius pressed his boot against the neck of the dead wych and prised her head off his new sword before turning to find the source of the shout. It was the Mantis Warrior, his long black hair flying in a frenzy around him as the tattoos that snaked over his abdomen, neck and face seemed to writhe. Because his armour had been mined in the fight at their landing site, much of it had been removed and discarded by the haemonculi, leaving him with only the gleaming emerald shoulder plate of his Chapter and the belt that bore the insignia of the Deathwatch on its buckle.

His pale, decorated and scarred skin shone with exertion and streams of blood. With both hands he wielded a long, double-bladed glaive, which he spun and flourished with the practiced ease of a warrior accustomed to gladiatorial practices. Not for the first time, Octavius was impressed by the first Mantis Warrior to serve the Deathwatch in a century.

With the deftest of gestures, flicking the tip of a blade as he parried and slashed, Kruidan indicated the ominous, gaping darkness that loomed between the gates to the arena. There seemed to be nothing there, except for the nauseating suggestion of dread.

The parade of wyches that had flipped and sprung their way into the amphitheatre had stopped; all of the gladiatrix darklings were already in position around the arena, prowling and menacing the Deathwatch and the eldar. So the blackness between the gates was yawning and pregnant with unseen terrors.

Standing in the midst of the fray as though utterly unconcerned by the teeming combat around him, Octavius stared over towards the open gates, focusing his gaze into the darkness beyond and trying to discern whether that was a route to salvation or doom. All around him, fighting was persisting in pockets of compet.i.tion, with each Marine matched against one or two dark eldar wyches. In the absence of reinforcements, and considering the almost unbelievable reticence shown by the aliens in the crowd, Octavius began to think in terms of what to do after the Deathwatch had surmounted this challenge. It occurred to him that it would probably be best if they did not stick around to find out.

aOctavius,a boomed Ashok, unleashing a torrent of warp fire from his fists as he stepped up to the captainas shoulder. aOctavius, we must not permit the wych queen to take the souls of those seers.a His voice was low and his intent was as dark as the shadow under his heavy hood. aThere is no way that they will survive this fight.a The Deathwatch captain turned again. The two seers that had been thrown from the queenas podium had been separated from the rest of the group. Even the dazzling white Aspect Warrior was no longer at their side a she was acrobatically busy with two other wyches that had cut her off from her brethren. The two seers were being hunted by five wyches, who prowled and vaulted in complicated patterns around them, easily evading the increasingly weak blasts of energy mustered by the two aging and crippled eldar. It was only a matter of time before Bhurolyn and the lame Xhelkisor would fall and the darklings would take their souls as the spoils of victory. They were too weak to survive Hesperax even if a miracle were to intervene in the arena.

Octavius nodded, acknowledging the unspoken wisdom of Ashokas words.

aSee to it,a he said. aI will investigate the gates. We need to find the spirit pool in which the queen is keeping her sacrifices. Despite all this,a he cast his arm around the scene of combat with the calm indifference of someone who was watching the conflict from a great distance, athere is still the question of the ascension of the queenas daemon.a Without a word, Ashok bowed curtly and then turned, striding off towards the embattled seers. He had long since abandoned the poisoned blades that he had lifted from the dark eldar guards, preferring to feel the snap of bone and the tearing of flesh in his hands, which now dripped with blood and crackled with unearthly powers. The haemonculi had not deprived him of his hood, which he now pulled deeply down over his face, hiding his reddening, glowering eyes in a new layer of shadow.

From the control deck of the t.i.tanicus Rex, Captain Mordia of the Grey Knights peered into the fractional future. The warp signatures around the fringes of the Eye of Terror were always tumultuous, but there was something shifting now a something threatening to emerge into the relatively heavy light of real s.p.a.ce. He had seen it happen countless times before and he knew the signs.

Even before the ancient frigate had closed on the Circuitrine system, which lay half submerged in the lashes of the great Eye, fragments and shards of the warp were already evident, bleeding out of the unseen dimensions into the ostensible vacuum of s.p.a.ce around it.

No alarms sounded on the Rex. Vessels in the service of the Grey Knights in this sector only rarely had their violation alarms active. They were constantly being dispatched into polluted s.p.a.ce, and there was little point in rattling everyoneas nerves with persistent alarms. Mordia had reflected more than once that it might be worth installing some form of purity alarm, which sounded when the vessel was no longer at risk of violation by daemonic powers. In general, however, he gave such trivial matters almost no thought at all.

From all over the ship, Mordiaas squad sounded in. The t.i.tanicus Rex was a sleek and elegant example of the best engineering that the Imperium could muster and it appeared ma.s.sive from the outside. It was, however, smaller than a strike cruiser, but far larger than a normal rapid strike vessel. If appearances were not deceptive, it should have contained at least half a company of Marines with full support equipment. In fact, the venerable vessel was a dedicated gunship with only a single squad of Marines ensconced within, distributed throughout the vesselas decks and control centres. The greatest portion of the hull was occupied by gun batteries and relays; where there might have been stations for personnel, there were ammunition dumps and ma.s.sive purification wards and the rear third of the frigate was taken up by a monumental engine, the likes of which would never be seen on a craft of a similar size anywhere else in the sector. The Rex was one of the finest strike vessels ever to have emerged from the great docks of t.i.tan in the Emperoras very own solar system.

All of the gunnery emplacements around the hull were registering emergent targets. There was nothing yet solid enough for them to fire upon, but the targets were lingering on the edge of material existence, like suggestions of the future or memories of the past. As he watched the swirling patterns of ruddy mist gathering in the icy vacuum, Mordiaas eyes scanned over the screen of the terminal that displayed the data from the long-range sensors. There was still nothing, not a single crisp, material signal or signature registered on the screen, despite the general background blur of activity in the warp that was spilling over into the material realm.

The t.i.tanicus Rex roared onward through the thickening mire, ploughing deeper into the swirling eddies of mist that enshrouded the Circuitrine system, its gun turrets twitching and tracking constantly as potential targets oscillated in and out of existence. Whatever was waiting in the tortuous dimensions of the warp, it was pressing hard against the barriers of the material dimensions, clawing at the fabric of s.p.a.ce-time. It could taste the promise of lives to possess and souls to steal, but it was not yet powerful enough to rip through. What was it waiting for, wondered Mordia?

Unphased by the gathering storm, Captain Mordia of the Grey Knights pressed on. After long decades of arduous training and dedicated service, he was well prepared for whatever might emerge from the unspeakable and invisible realms.

Let them come, he thought, staring out into the sullied mess of the s.p.a.ce before his mighty and righteous vessel. Let them come, and we will show them the meaning of existence in this reality.

It didnat matter how many times she saw him; every time she met the curator, Perceptia had to fight against her own sense of revulsion. In an attempt to pre-empt her own instinctive discomfort, the inquisitor had removed her eyegla.s.ses and thus transformed the two-faced creature into a somewhat featureless blur. It was a childish thing to do, and Perceptia felt sure that the four-eyed Seye Multinus would not be blind to it, but she had enough on her mind at the moment without extra, needless anxieties. The young inquisitor still found herself pushing her middle finger up along the ridge of her nose, as though to press back her gla.s.ses. In the absence of the spectacles, however, the gesture merely served to draw attention to the fact that she had removed them.

aAah, Inquisitoror Persceptiaa. Iaveve beenn waiting for youu.a The strange echoing voice made her skin crawl. aGreetings, Seye. Do you have anything for me?a Her voice was too perfectly controlled, making her manner seem forced and false.

aYesyes,a hissed Seye, his two mouths spitting in excitement. He knew when he had found something important; it was what he lived for. If Perceptia had been wearing her gla.s.ses, she would have seen the barely contained eagerness glinting in the four eyes that stared back at her. aFollow mee.a With that, the bizarre little man turned and shuffled off through the doc.u.ment stacks, making almost no sound at all as his soft feet pressed against the dull, matted floor. With surprising speed, he led the inquisitor along a winding route between the innumerable shelves and bookcases until he reached the little desk at which Perceptia had been working earlier.

Perceptiaas eyes widened as she emerged out of the darkness of the last aisle. Instinctively, she pressed her finger against the bridge of her nose, trying to push her gla.s.ses into place so that she could see more clearly, but they were not there. For a moment, she fumbled through her doc.u.ment pouch until she located her spectacles and returned them to her eyes.

aWhich pile is which, Seye?a she asked, conscious that the curatoras answer would be of only logistical significance at this point.

In her absence, Seye Multinus had taken all of the files, doc.u.ments, and books down from the shelves along the aisle that had interested her. He had read through each and every sheet of paper and sorted them into two constellations of ma.s.sive piles, one on each side of Perceptiaas little desk. Casting her eyes from one side to the other, Perceptia could make out very little difference in terms of the distribution of doc.u.ments or the size of the piles.

With obvious and sickly delight, Seye shuffled from one side of the desk to the other, pointing at the piles and picking out individual ma.n.u.scripts whilst babbling away in his echoey and incoherent manner. After a few excited seconds, it seemed that the curator no longer knew which way to turn, so he stopped directly in front of the desk with one of his faces pointing in either direction. His mouths worked rapidly as his eyes darted over the t.i.tles along the spines of the files, but each mouth was reading a different line and the result was little more than a cacophonous outpouring of sibilance and excited, frothing spittle.

aSeye!a snapped Perceptia, trying to bring some semblance of quiet and order back to the hallowed s.p.a.ces of the Hereticus librarium. She needed the quiet to be able to think properly, but she also needed Seye to calm down and explain what he had found and how he had organised the material that towered up around them.

The little curator creature flinched as though he had been struck, and he scurried off into the shadows of one of the nearby aisles, as if he were afraid that Perceptia would attack him. The long legacy of fear and abuse was not easily exorcised from his psyche, especially not in an atmosphere that was more full of suspicion and anxiety than it was of oxygen.

aSeye,a repeated Perceptia in the sudden, uncomfortable silence. Her voice dropped into a low velvet, and she did her very best to lend it an edge of compa.s.sionate appreciation. She had learnt a thousand ways to extract information from an uncooperative prisoner, but when it came to simple human communication she was rapidly reduced to being merely a bookish and socially r.e.t.a.r.ded woman. Talking to people as though they were worthwhile human beings had never been Perceptiaas forte, and it was even harder when she found herself talking to a two-faced, four-eyed mutant curator that was frothing from two mouths with evident over excitement.

aSeye, this looks most impressive. Can you please tell me which of the piles contain references to the Circuitrine Nebula? Time is a factor here, as you may appreciate.a The curator slunk back out of the shadows, one of his mouths working silently as though unsure of what to say. Before it could mutter a single coherent word, the other mouth cut in. aaall off themem, inquisitoror.a For a long moment, Perceptia did not say anything. She looked from Seye to the piles and then back again. aAll of them?a aYesyes,a echoed the curator, a hint of excitement returning to his voice. aEveryy onene. Not onene withoutout Cirrtrinene. Not onene.a aYou looked at every doc.u.ment in that aisle?a asked Perceptia as she struggled to comprehend the implications of what Seye was saying. As she pointed down the aisle that she was talking about, her eyes followed the line of her own finger and she saw for herself that there was not a single sheet of paper left on those shelves.

Seye just nodded, his mouths smiling so broadly that they nearly cracked into a single, cavernous grin.

aSeye,a began Perceptia as her mind started to form a new string of suspicions. aDid you know that they would all mention the Circuitrine system before you started looking?a If every confession in that section contained mention of that specific system, it seemed to Perceptia that they must have been filed in that location because they mentioned Circuitrine. The coincidence would simply be too unlikely.

Seyeas four eyes widened in wild excitement, as though he was about to reveal the most important secret he had ever known.

To his surprise, none of the wyches attempted to block Octaviusa path towards the ruined gladiatrix gates that loomed out of the wall beneath their queenas ceremonial viewing platform. He saw some of them glance over in his direction as he strode through the arena, but not one broke off from her fight with the other Marines to intercept him.

At first, Octavius thought that this was because they dared not turn their backs on his Deathwatch battle-brothers, but then he realised that there was no panic or frustration in the looks that had been thrown at him. If anything, the manic, burning eyes of the aliens glinted with even more excitement when they saw where the captain was heading. In the crowd, a hush of antic.i.p.ation had begun to settle over the hysteria. All eyes were gradually turning towards the captain, despite the other contests that still raged around the arena.

The crowd was treated to a magnificent sight: a squad of Deathwatch Marines was engaged hand-to-hand with the gladiatrix wyches of Hesperax in the grand arena of Sussarkhas Peak. The wych queen, Lelith of Hesperax, stood like an icon of terrible beauty, overseeing the ritual combat from her blood soaked throne platform; and a single mon-keigh warrior stood alone beneath her podium, defiant and proud against the impenetrable darkness that lay beyond the broken and yawning gates.

It was a scene worthy of transformation into a fresco for the halls of the Watchtower Fortress of Ramugan, or for the Hall of Lost Souls that lurked like a forgotten h.e.l.l in the bowels of Sussarkhas volcanic mountain.

Octavius was unconcerned by the aesthetic quality of his dramatic pose. This was not a game for him. He paused for a moment before the yawning dark of the ma.s.sive and crumbling gates, trying to discern what lay beyond, but then he simply spun his blades and strode forward. He was already cut off on an unknown planet in the fringes of the Eye of Terror, and utterly surrounded by hundreds of dark eldar warriors up in the stands. They had the high ground, and he was stranded in the bottom of a fighting pit with his team embattled and stretched.

This was no time to be concerned about strategy or calculation. This was not even the time for recourse to the Codex. This was the time for honour, courage and death.

As he stepped forward into the darkness, a mechanical whine and a rush of air made him dive back into the arena. He hit the ground hard, crashing down onto his back as a ma.s.sive metallic talon bore down on him out of the dense shadows as though emerging from nowhere. Just in time, he rolled to one side and the reinforced point of the spike punched into the ground next to him, burying itself nearly a metre into the deck and sending debris exploding into the air.

The Imperial Fist was on his feet in an instant, dancing backwards to distance himself from the new threat and to identify it. Meanwhile, the crowd had exploded into a whole new level of frenzy. The atmosphere was dense with screams and wails of ecstasy. It was enough to make unprotected human ears ring with pain.

As he watched, a huge mechanical monstrosity emerged slowly out of the darkness beyond the gates. It was vaguely pyramidal, but with spikes, tusks and jagged angles sucking out of it like the spines of a warp beast. The protrusions were decorated with skulls and dismembered limbs, and coated in thick, b.l.o.o.d.y ichor.

From each of the two corners at the front, long pincers extended on slender mechanical arms; they reached and quested before the bizarre construction as it gently hovered forward out of the darkness and into the arena. Cut into the front of the a.s.sembly, between the two bladed arms, was a snarling metallic mouth, which gnashed and chewed continuously, venting plumes of noxious smoke each time the heavy jaws snapped shut. And from the rear of the hideous structure rose a terrible, arching talon, like the sting of a scorpion; it lashed forward, punching into the ground at Octaviusa feet as he leapt clear for a second time.

The crowd thundered its maniacal thrill from the stands as Octavius looked from the slender, elegant blades in his hands to the huge, insane, torturous device that had emerged before him. Completely surrounded and utterly outnumbered, having been drawn into the Eye of Terror by the devious machinations of the eldar and abandoned on the cursed, vile planet of Hesperax, Octavius finally had to consider the possibility that even a Deathwatch captain might not be able to win every fight. aCaptain!a The call came from behind him, but he had no time to turn as he dived forward into a roll, ducking under the stinging talon and coming up between the constructas forward pincers. Even before he could regain his feet, the bladed arms lashed in at him from both sides, forcing him to drop to the ground and roll clear once again.

aCaptain!a There was genuine urgency in the cry from Atreus, and Octavius thought that he could hear the pounding footfalls of the librarian charging towards him. At the same time, the crowd roared to an incredible and deafening pitch, just when it had seemed that they could not possibly get any louder.