Awakenings, p.21
Awakenings, page 21
‘Get back, Nol.’
He turned to see Metik lining up a shot with his old-fashioned gun and frowned. ‘Don’t shoot at me!’
‘I am not shooting at you, Nol. I am shooting at them.’
The weapon spat. The screaming man exploded.
‘Now, take cover before they have the opportunity to shoot back.’
‘Ah-ha,’ said Nol, understanding dawning just as the las-fire began streaking in through the shattered remnants of the doorway. He took two steps back, and then ducked behind the wall as Metik fired again, detonating another of the black-clad guards.
‘I want to break the pale one,’ said Nol.
‘That might have to wait,’ replied Metik, loosing another shot.
‘Retreat!’ bellowed one of the guards. Most of them had already made it back through the door, dragging the pale man out along with them. They’d taken the dead woman too, the one with the sword in her chest.
Nol looked down at his sore hand. He could see the floor through the middle of the hole. He stepped away from the wall, turned towards the door.
‘Nol, no. They’ll kill you if you go after them. Let them go.’
Nol crossed the room. He stood for a moment, looking down at Heloise, at the look of shock frozen on her face.
‘It’s not right, Metik. She’s supposed to look peaceful, like she’s asleep.’
‘I know, Nol. I know.’
Maybe I can help. Maybe I can make her feel better.
He dropped to one knee, gathered her up in his arms and held her close to his chest, rocking her gently, like a baby.
And then the tears came.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘What is the loss of a single life when set against a galaxy of misery? What is the cost of a soul? How do we weigh its worth? The truth is, we do not. We cannot. Because to comprehend such a thing is to walk the path towards madness. To understand all that we have lost – all that we have yet to lose – is a burden even the strongest of us could never hope to bear.’
– Johan Francois, On the Eve of Exterminatus
Sabbathiel knew there was something wrong the moment they entered the trench. A stirring in the ether; a twisting in her guts. Images and sounds lashing unbidden through her mind, like the fleeting, strobing stutter of another reality encroaching on her own.
Brondel bellowing as he throws himself at an enforcer.
Heloise pirouetting through the midst of a melee, blades flashing.
Sinjan’s ebon blade sliding from its scabbard.
A scream…
Sabbathiel folded double, clutching the side of her head. She emitted a low moan.
‘Astor?’ Mandreth was at her side, a reassuring hand on her shoulder. They’d rendezvoused shortly after leaving the dead astropath and were now making their way back to the safe house. ‘More visions?’
She shrugged him off, fighting to regain her composure. ‘Sinjan. He’s found us.’
Mandreth stiffened beside her, his hand straying to the hilt of his weapon. ‘Where?’ His eyes searched the narrow alley openings, dark and foreboding like the starved mouths of the dead. But there was nothing amongst those foetid streets but imagined phantoms.
‘Not here. The safe house.’
‘How?’
Sabbathiel wiped at a bead of sweat that was trickling down her temple. ‘It must have been Mol. She probably set people on our trail when we left the Gallowspire. Either that, or the damned Assassin. Either way, they’re all working for Sinjan.’
Mandreth nodded, drew them all to a stop. The heavens had opened again, down here in the foul microclimate of this lowliest of undercities, and the dirty rain was streaming down their faces, staining their clothes. ‘Do we risk it?’
Sabbathiel glanced across at him. ‘What choice do we have? Our people…’
Mandreth worked his jaw. ‘You’ve seen them in action. They can look after themselves. It’s you he’s after, not them.’
‘Nevertheless.’
‘You’d really offer yourself up to him on a platter?’
‘He was the one who lost an arm the last time we met,’ she reminded Mandreth. ‘I’d very much like to take the other one, along with his head.’ She was surprised at the bitterness in her own voice. She’d always deemed the pursuit of vengeance to be unbecoming of an inquisitor of her station. But then, this business with Sinjan was more than mere payback for the trouble he’d caused her. He’d become an obstacle to her investigation. One that needed removing, and in short order. That she might also glean some vague sense of satisfaction in the process was… incidental.
Or is that just what I tell myself to sleep better at night?
‘All the same, ma’am,’ said Bledheim, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if impatient to get out of the downpour, ‘perhaps caution is advisable. There’s the Assassin to consider…’
Aethesia hefted her sword as if in answer.
Sabbathiel laughed. ‘Caution? We’re hardly inconspicuous, strolling through the slums with a golden-armoured Sister of Silence in tow. We’re well beyond caution now, Bledheim.’ She wiped rainwater from her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘We carry on. We get our people, and we get the Throne out of there.’
Bledheim’s face paled. He wouldn’t meet her eye.
‘What is it, interrogator? Spit it out.’
‘It’s…’ Bledheim seemed to stumble over his words, before finally changing his mind, drawing his robes tighter around his shoulders to stave off the rain. ‘It’s nothing, ma’am. I’m merely concerned for your safety.’
She eyed him for a moment longer, then nodded.
Not in front of the others, eh? No matter. It’ll keep. But I mark your concern, interrogator. I mark it well.
She turned and resumed walking, Fitch a few yards ahead of her, his scanners winking as he probed the shadows for any lurking threat.
The others fell in behind her. Their silence spoke volumes.
We are all of us caught in this web of death and deceit, and none of us knows which way to turn next. And so, we do the only thing that we can: we walk on, willing ourselves to survive another day.
Mandreth had apprised her of his and Bledheim’s encounter with Father Rand at the Cathedral of Saint Euphrades. While he’d been unable to put his finger on anything specific, it was clear he hadn’t taken to the priest, and the revelation that Lord Rasmuth had been in attendance at Quintus Bleeth’s funeral was a sure indicator that whatever Heldren had uncovered here on Hulth involved the very highest levels of governance and society. Sabbathiel had no doubt that the priest was in on it too.
The Navigator. The governor. The priest.
What am I not seeing?
The significance of the golden eagles still troubled her, for a start. She hadn’t yet given voice to her fears, but the sight of that scrawled armoured figure on the wall, coupled with the dying birds in her vision, had conjured forth images of gold-clad warriors with glittering plumed helms; towering, inhuman things that were said to be cast in the very image of the Emperor Himself. His elite bodyguard. The Adeptus Custodes.
If they are a part of this, we are all doomed.
The thought passed through her like a bolt of electricity.
The Adeptus Custodes.
Here…
She gasped, her hands straying unconsciously to clutch at her stomach, images of her past life stuttering before her like strobing lights, obscuring her vision until she was back there, on that ancient battle-barge, standing in the shadow of giants while the enemy closed in from all sides.
‘That which begets heresy might see only heresy.’ Leofric’s voice rang with judgement, with pride, with such damned arrogance.
Who was he to judge her?
Was she not a tool of the Emperor’s will?
Had she not the presence of mind, the strength, to control the thing in her vault? To wield the daemonhost as a weapon against the enemies of the Imperium? To understand the poison that ran through its veins, to use that same poison against it and its foul brethren? She had bound the accursed thing into flesh and blood. She had learned its true name.
Sarasti.
The spawn of the warp itself.
‘You sought the counsel of daemons?’ The words were like weapons, intended to sting, to flense the very flesh from her bones. But in them, she heard only wilful ignorance. The Grey Knight could not possibly understand, too blinded was he by learned truths and obfuscation. Too unwilling to accept the failings of his kind.
Under duress, Sarasti had led her to the truth.
That the Adeptus Astartes were lost to the Emperor’s light.
Sabbathiel willed Leofric to understand. ‘I sought the truth. Through whatever means proved necessary. We must root out the heresy that festers in the heart of the Imperium. We must cleanse it with fire. There can be no exception.’
But he was as blind as the rest of them.
She knew exactly what was coming. What that stupid bastard was about to do. And there was nothing at all she could do to stop him.
The Grey Knight raised his arm. ‘Now, finally, you speak the truth.’
His storm bolter barked.
Sabbathiel’s body jerked as the explosive round tore through her.
The blackness closed in.
‘Sabbathiel?’
The voice cut through the darkness, like a chink of light.
She opened her eyes, realised she was still standing in the rain.
In the trench.
On Hulth.
‘Is everything…?’ A pause. ‘Are you well?’ There was a note of genuine concern in Mandreth’s voice. She felt his hand on her upper arm.
Sabbathiel allowed the rain to play over her face for a few seconds, washing away the last vestiges of the memory. ‘I’m well.’
‘Another bad dream?’
She sighed, shook herself, brushed his hand away. ‘Something like that.’
What if all of this is just a bad dream? What if I’m still back there, tumbling through the warp, a gaping hole in my stomach? What if none of this is real at all?
She glanced round, saw Aethesia watching her, her expression unreadable behind her mask.
What if Leofric was right? What if I’m not worthy?
What then?
She let the raindrops trickle down her cheeks like tears, and then, nodding her thanks to Mandreth, she walked on.
‘Fitch.’
Sabbathiel beckoned the servo-skull forward with a wave of her hand.
From across the narrow street, it was obvious they were too late. Sinjan had deployed with overwhelming force, and the devastation was clear to see. The door was gone, leaving a ragged, burnt hole where it had once hung, and there were bloodstains on the plascrete out in the street, mingling with the filthy rainwater like swirling oil. There were no signs of movement from within.
Sabbathiel knew that there was every chance the others were dead, and that Sinjan was waiting for them inside, ready to spring his trap.
That would be his second mistake.
The first was killing her people.
The servo-skull swept low, mechadendrites testing the air, before dipping up through the open doorway and disappearing inside.
Mandreth glanced over. ‘Whatever happened here, he’ll pay.’
Sabbathiel gave a curt nod. She studied the doorway.
Nothing.
‘Fitch?’
The vox-link crackled, bursting to life in a sudden hiss of static. ‘…what the freck is that thing doing? Get it away from me, tech-priest. Now.’
Sabbathiel shot Bledheim a look. He was grinning. She pushed herself away from the wall and started walking towards the safe house, her fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of her unsheathed sword.
‘Fitch?’
The servo-skull reappeared in the doorway, hovering at around head height. ‘The premises are secure, mistress.’
Thank the Throne.
‘And the others?’
Fitch seemed to pause. ‘Perhaps it’s best you see for yourself.’
Sabbathiel frowned as she stepped through the burned-out portal…
…and into what appeared to be some sort of grisly charnel house. There were bodies everywhere: on the ground; slumped against the walls; one still standing in the corner, propped where its armour had snagged on some old, decorative protrusion. All of them – almost all of them, Sabbathiel corrected herself – were wearing the same enforcers’ uniforms as those who had attacked them at the mausoleum. At least one of them, just inside the door, was dressed in shiny black carapace armour that set it apart from the rest.
The air reeked of spilled blood and piss. Sabbathiel could taste it on her tongue – the familiar, depressing stink of the abandoned battlefield.
There was no sign of Sinjan.
Metik crouched in the midst of this bloody apocalypse, carrying out what appeared to be an invasive medical procedure on Brondel, who was squirming on his back with his shirt and armour removed, the left side of his chest sliced open and several of the machine man’s manipulator mandibles buried deep inside. The squat, evidently in intense pain, seemed determined not to admit to such, grinding his teeth and uttering ridiculous curses.
‘Throne dammit, tech-priest, but your hands are cold.’
On the other side of the room, an entirely different scene was playing out.
Nol was sitting against the wall, his knees drawn up, cradling what appeared to be the limp body of Heloise in his massive arms. He was rocking her gently from side to side like an infant, but her head was lolling awfully with every motion, and her eyes, still open, were fixed and unresponsive.
‘Nol.’
Sabbathiel stepped to one side to allow Mandreth space. He barely seemed to notice the heaped corpses, the slick puddles of blood and viscera, as he walked calmly over to Nol’s side and dropped to his knees beside the ogryn.
He put his hand on Nol’s shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Nol. I’m here.’
‘The pale man stabbed her,’ said Nol, his voice wavering. ‘Right through the middle. And then she wasn’t moving any more. She just lay there, on the ground. But she didn’t look peaceful. She was supposed to look peaceful.’
Mandreth reached over and, with finger and thumb, delicately closed Heloise’s eyes. ‘There, Nol. She’s peaceful now, see? It worked. All that rocking – you made her peaceful again. She can rest now.’
Nol turned to look at Mandreth, fixing the inquisitor with those big, staring eyes. ‘I wanted to break him, for what he did. I wanted to snap him in half, but he stabbed me in the hand and got away.’ The ogryn held up his left hand to show the gaping wound in his palm.
‘You did well, Nol. You all did.’ Mandreth stood. He held out his arms. ‘Now, give me Heloise and I’ll take her away from all of this mess.’
Nol nodded, and then, with a forlorn look on his face, he scooped up the body from his lap, lifting the dead woman as if she were as light as air. Mandreth took her in his arms and carried her off towards one of the adjoining chambers.
‘The little guy was hurt too,’ said Nol.
‘I’m not. Frecking. Little,’ spat Brondel from across the room. ‘And I wasn’t hurt. Just took a shot to the chest, is all. A few broken ribs.’
‘And a collapsed lung,’ added Metik. ‘You almost drowned.’
‘Again!’ said Brondel. ‘I hate water.’
‘It was not water–’ started Metik, but Brondel had already passed out.
‘Will he live?’ asked Sabbathiel.
‘Unfortunately,’ confirmed Metik. ‘His chances of survival are eighty-nine point three eight per cent. I am fusing his broken ribs now. He may suffer a little residual pain, perhaps, but there will be no lasting damage.’
She turned to wave Bledheim towards the ogryn. ‘The tech-priest is busy. See to his hand.’
‘But I’m not skilled–’
‘Just do it,’ said Sabbathiel, irritably. She glanced around, saw Aethesia stooped over the body of the soldier in the black carapace armour. She crossed to join her.
The man’s corpse was now headless. Fragments of what was left of the errant head were spread across the plascrete in several directions, and the severed stump looked ragged and raw, with flaps of skin still attached where the head had been torn off.
Nol.
Aethesia was holding the dead man’s right wrist, where a black marking marred the otherwise smooth, olive-hued flesh. The null maiden held it up so Sabbathiel could see.
It was a tattoo of familiar design: two planets in orbit around one another, linked by a bolt of lightning.
‘Metik – this one. Who was he?’
The tech-priest glanced up briefly from his ministrations on the squat. ‘He was with Atticus Sinjan. One would presume a member of his personal guard.’
His personal guard.
Sabbathiel sighed.
The Navigator. The governor. The priest… and the inquisitor.
Sounds like the start of a damn joke.
Of course Sinjan was in on it. Whatever it was. It made a terrible kind of sense. That had to be why they’d killed Heldren, because he was getting too close to the truth. And it explained why Sinjan was so intent on stopping Sabbathiel from continuing Heldren’s investigation.
This wasn’t about her at all. It wasn’t about the conclave’s lack of trust in her, or her need to prove herself innocent of Heldren’s murder. It never had been. She’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I was convenient. I got in the way.
And now I know too much.
Were the rest of the Palmarian Conclave involved, too? She had to assume so, at least for now.
What in the Emperor’s name had she woken to? A galaxy rent apart, and a conspiracy in her own ranks. But to what end? She still didn’t know what any of them were actually up to, what they hoped to achieve. Nor was she any closer to understanding what had happened to the body of Quintus Bleeth, and what – if anything – had been smuggled onto Hulth through his tomb.
