A Night and a Sorcerer

[Solid Zaku]

This was the first story I ever wrote, and I've done a few (better) since then. However, I still look back on it with a certain fondness, as many mistakes as I notice. Enjoy.

 

Priority level: Magenta Gamma

Transmitted: Inquisitorial Battleship Eleison

To: Polmeryn Town, Plains World

Date: 3883516.M41

Transmitter: Astropath Prime Golumera

Receiver: Astropath-terminus Berethi

Author: Lord Inquisitor Fonidere Complus

Thought for the Day: What the Emperor gives in battle, give back in faith.

 

Inquisitor Belmarck,

I trust your trip to Plains World went well as I haven’t received word of your shuttles’ destruction. I am sorry that the local Astartes aren’t as cooperative as you would have wished, but they do tend to become suspicious of those wielding the might of the Inquisitorial Rosette. Be that as it may, I have a very pressing matter to bring to light. I am in great danger, Belmarck. As of this message, I am being hounded by very well connected heathens, and I can no longer guarantee the safety of my…personal assets. As such, I am breaking all ties to such important artefacts and leaving them in the custody of people they will not suspect, or those I feel are safe enough from their treachery. You, Belmarck, are of the latter. If this be my last will and testament, then, Emperor as my witness, I grant you the prisoner. Yes…him.

 

 

Lord Inquisitor Fonidere Complus, Ordo Malleus,

His Imperial Majesty’s Inquisition

 

[Message ends]

 

A Night and a Sorcerer

 

As Torvillus Belmarck lowered the data-slate, he understood what had to be done. Complus had taken an exceptionally large risk keeping the prisoner on a planet such as this, but now was not the time to insult his former masters’ work. He had to reach the prisoner, extract whatever necessary information he held, and then blow him and the compound he was in straight to the Warp. Neither he nor the prisoner he was supposed to meet was meant to be on this world. The Dark Angels show no love for members of the Inquisition, and if they knew what he was doing here, they would have ample reason to end his existence. Even if they didn’t, he was still not safe. The Angels held an aura of themselves over Plains World, and the people emulated their disdain for members of the Holy Ordos, although they did fear them.

 

In his dulled, green robe, he looked just as dreary and non-descript as every other member of this world, something he took no small amount of pleasure in. The local PDF would be looking for some kind of blow-hard barging his way through the streets, signs of office in outstretched hand. That same hand would have a pair of iron rings around them while a lasgun round found its way firmly into his skull. Not a fitting end for an Inquisitor, he thought. As such, he swallowed his pride and took only the bare essentials: his clothes, a laspistol with the identifying marks scraped off that he’d purchased from a rather seedy shop a night earlier, the key card that Complus had sent him, his rosette which he kept hidden under his heavy robe, and his wits.

 

He knew of an old member of the Ecclesiarchy that owed him many a lifetime of favors…he was going to even the score tonight. He’d met the man a number of decades ago while being mentored by Fonidere Complus on a backwater agri-world named Kralvar. Though he had purged dozens if not hundreds of heretical cells in his years, he remembered the purgation of Kralvar the most. His friend had also been on Kralvar, and was affected by those events much more drastically, though he hid the memories of those days as best he could.

 

Walking in the shadows of the many hab-units that dotted Polmeryn, he pulled the hood of the cloak he was wearing a bit tighter each time a patrol of Guardsmen would pass, and was close to pulling his laspistol when an older Guardsman gave him a suspicious glance. Belmarck could tell that the man knew most of the people of this area, and knew that he was an outsider. As he convinced himself that this hooded figure was just another citizen on his way to worship, he swayed his lasgun in a passing motion.

 

When Belmarck reached the edge of the grand Imperial temple in which his friend worked, he made the sign of the Aquila in reverence, and entered. Hundreds of congregants were assembled inside the holy shrine, and though they all bore the same green robes, each one of them canted the glories of Him Enthroned in their own way. Some shouted his praise in tones louder than one would consider possible, while others remained deathly silent, not daring to incur his wrath. He smiled to himself in the thought that perhaps not all of this galaxies denizens were faithless.

 

Belmarck shuffled and shoved his way through some of the near maddened worshippers, and reached a rather plain looking door being guarded by an Imperial Guardsmen wearing rather bulky ceremonial gear. In the green and silvered plasteel, he looked like a child imitating the grandeur of the Space Marines that would visit this world every so often. The Guardsman, aggravated by his uniform, could see that this man wasn’t another of the usual zealots. He pivoted in his direction and said to him in a blandly rehearsed tone,

 

“The Cardinal shall not deliver the Sermon of Penitence for three more hours. Please return then.” Although he expected this response, it still put him in a difficult position. He could choose to show his true colors and risk being found out by those who might wish him ill. He could also be a bit more forceful with the Guard and earn his anger. As he looked at the clearly annoyed man, he realized that wouldn’t be in his better interests. Coming so close to the Guard that he nearly shouldered his weapon, Belmarck raised his hand from the thick cloth of his robe and showed the man the back of his palm, revealing the crimson tattoo of the Inquisitorial insignia, denoting his stature in the Ordo Malleus. To press the matter a bit further, the air around the two went into a polar chill, causing a thin patina of frost to accumulate on his visor. The look on his face went from nonchalant uncaring to abject terror; he grabbed for the brass knob of the door so fast that he nearly dropped his lasgun. Rushing in through the opening, he closed the door. Some days it did pay off to be a member of the Ordo, he thought.

 

Now with a moment or two to think, Belmarck walked to one of the knee-high benches that were strangely empty, and knelt to give thanks to the Emperor. He looked upon the great gilded image of the Emperor as his form slew a thousand daemons thrice over in the center of the temple. Great chiseled scenes of the Great Crusade lined the walls as heroes of millennia past stood triumphantly over vanquished foes, daemon and alien alike. He viewed this splendor, and bowed his head. He either didn’t notice, or didn’t care that a person kneeled down not a foot away from him, as his head never rose. A warm, baritone voice asked,

 

“Grand is the Emperor’s light, for it banishes the darkness, wouldn’t you agree?” Not moving, Belmarck replied,

 

“Even the darkest angel can become a being of light in His presence.”

 

“You always were good with words, Torvillus. Why didn’t you join the Ecclesiarchy?” Smiling, he answered back,

 

“You were always good with a laspistol, Marxis, why didn’t you join the Inquisition?”

 

As the two men rose from their kneeling positions, they began to look each other over; years of distance had glazed their memories. Marxis was the physical embodiment of most every Cardinal Belmarck had met: thin, graying hair, sunk back eyes as though a years nights of sleep were lost, scars that denoted previous service to Him Enthroned, an inspiration to the youth. Like all senior members of the Ecclesiarchy, he had the unnervingly steely look in his eyes that seemed to pierce into the very essence of your soul and stare down at the sin inside you.

 

Belmarck himself seemed to be nearly the opposite, as Marxis saw. He had straight, mid-cut black hair that gave him the appearance of somebody who was only in his forties, and his muscular physique only added to the effect. He bore very few scars, those he had gained in service he had quickly removed or grafted, as they could be used to identify him in a crowd. He had no augmetic features either; he had a disdain for “altering that which the Emperor provided him”. Though two sides of the same coin, they were both nearly eighty years old. A lopsided smirk overcame the old man and he chided,

 

“Those rejuvenat treatments are working well, I can see. Where is your former banter over ‘altering the Emperor’s work’?”

 

“Let’s just say I’m keeping this masterpiece preserved.” They shared a rich laugh that seemed to clash with the revelry around them. Some members of the congregation took notice of their merriment and scowled, not realizing either of their statures. Marxis had also donned the deep green robes of the common folk, as suspicions would be raised if the Cardinal were seen with an Inquisitor in private. Taking notice of their surroundings, the old man put an arm around Belmarck’s shoulder and showed him through the door the Guardsman passed through. Ducking through catacomb-like constructs and hallways, they walked until they eventually found the living quarters of Cardinal Marxis O’Reilly.

 

His room was well-furbished but not anywhere near as opulent or gaudy as the grand areas reserved for other members of the clergy. Marxis’ room was practically Spartan in this regard, although the many golden icons of the God-Emperor were certainly out of reach of many of the commoners among Plains World. Belmarck saw the adorned Guardsman standing next to his door and noticed that he was doing the best he could not to look at him. He must have been told stories of the rather unforgiving nature of the Ordos, and must have seen his previous refusal to allow access to the Cardinal as a capital offense. He nearly burst out a sigh of relief when Marxis granted him permission to leave the room, as he rushed out faster than a Land Speeder. The old man poured a bottle of some kind of spirit into a goblet which he offered towards Belmarck. Upon his refusal, he sat down on an ornately carved wooden chair, and his friend did as such with one that looked more regular.

 

“It’s been truly too long, Torvillus. Far too long.”

 

 

“Yes, it has. And I feel almost vulgar after all these years just to come back to ask favors, but as you well know…”

 

“His work is never truly done.” he finished, “Look, Torvillus, I owe you, not the other way around. Just consider this a small payment.” He took on an awkward, grandfatherly look, even though the man next to him was actually older than he. The Inquisitor’s look, on the other hand, remained as serious as a rockcrete slab.

 

“Trust me, Maxis, when all’s said and done, I will most definitely owe you.”

 

“Torvillus, if this about some kind of trouble you have with the Inquisition, then I will help you as best I can, but hiding you can’t be that much of a large favor.” Belmarck looked almost insulted by the man’s insinuations, and his expression became puzzled.

 

“I take it, then, that this has nothing to do with any of your troubles?”

 

“No. I’m here on Inquisitorial business.” At this, Marxis grasped at the handles of his chair until his pallid knuckles turned white. He had lived a pious life on Plain’s World and had almost nothing to fear from the man, the fact that he was a friend notwithstanding. Be that as it may, people of Belmarck’s profession had a way of inflaming a guilty conscience, no matter how righteous the person. Seeing this outward display of dread, he placed his hand on that of the old man’s and said in a calming voice,

 

“Look, I’m not here to judge you, Marxis. I need your help actually. I need someone of your piety to aid me in my mission. You see, we’re going to meet an old acquaintance of yours.” This put his mind completely out of focus. He was a very guarded person; the only friends he made were people in the public’s eye that would have a lot to lose should something happen to him. Belmarck, on the other hand, was a friend from a long time ago…

 

“Full Ecclesiarch! Read 'em and weep!” The other four groaned, cursed, and muttered as Jones spread his hand onto the camp table.

 

“A pleasure doing business with you, ladies.” Jones turned to O'Reilly buried, as usual, in the pages of a book.

 

“How do you read all that anyway? It ain't even got pictures! You should get a real hobby like cards,” he grinned deviously.

 

“Thanks, but my pay's bad enough without turning it over to you and your conveniently lucky cards.”

 

“Convin...what’s that supposed to...Hey! You accusing me of something, Books?” Jones rose menacingly from the table.

 

“Calm down, Jonesie, Calm down!” said Marsters, putting a hand on Jones' shoulder, “he didn't mean nothin' by it.” Jones shook off the hand, but sat back down.

 

“Books oughta keep his damn mouth shut then.”

 

“Maybe, but at least he's smart enough not to keep playing when you take everyone's money,” Girafino growled tossing his own cards on the table, “I'm sick of this, when're we getting our orders?”

 

“Why are you in such a rush to get back to the front, anyway?”

 

“Because, if I don't get out of this camp soon, I'm going to end up like Wiznisky”

 

O'Reilly looked up.

 

“What happened to Squeaker?” Jones opened his mouth, but shut it when Griafino's hand cracked across the back of his head.

 

 

 

“Swallowed a laspistol this morning.” Griafino finished for him.

 

“Oh, damn.”

 

“Listen up, girls.” Jones jumped at the voice suddenly behind him. “Looks like Jones got his wish.” Davidson, the last living member of the squad, waved a sheaf of paper. “We're marching out within the hour.” Marsters reached out for the papers.

 

 

“Where're we going this time?”

 

“Hell everlasting, my lucky laddie. Straight from the Commissar's mouth, we're to join up with Baker Company. We're going to retake Sector 43, the Meat Grinder, and may the Emperor take mercy on our souls.”

 

O'Reilly dropped his precious book in the mud. Marsters and Griafino stepped back as though to ward off an evil omen. Even Jones, ever eager to be in the thick of it, was taken aback. The Meat Grinder, they called it, because every squad, company, and battalion that entered that valley got chewed to bloody pieces. The Imperium lost control of the valley, officially designated as Sector 43 early in the war, and commissar after commissar spilled IG blood like water trying to take it back. And now, they were about to march right into the middle of it.

 

“I think Wiznisky got off easy,” mumbled Jones, but there was no humor left in his voice. There was no humor in any of their voices. Not now, and likely not ever again. There's not much place for laughter on the road to hell.

 

As his fading memories swam by him, he began to see the full scope of things. Inquisitors only arrive when there is a dire need of their services, and Belmarck was no exception. The fact that he was acting in such a secretive manner, given his title, was another implication of the seriousness of the situation. Though he knew that keeping secrets was against the very will of the Emperor of Mankind, he kept one. He hated himself and his secret, but it was for the good of humanity that that…thing remained buried. It had cost him his hand, but he still protected it. As his memories swarmed back in his mind like an unwanted tide, he tented his fingers and closed his eyes.

 

“Hey, Books!” yelled Jones, flinging his lasgun in his direction. O’Reilly fumbled for it in the air but eventually caught it, giving Jones a stern glare. Jones looked at the small man for a moment, but only laughed at the idea that Books thought he could beat him in a fight.

 

“Can’t win a war with those fancy laspistols, Books,” he said, remarking on the fact that Marxis always seemed to have a pair of Naval Issue Laspistols around. From what he’d told the rest of the squad, they were his father’s and grandfather’s that were passed down to him, although very few of them cared. The fact that they were about to be carted off to their unceremonious funerals didn’t help matters. Griafino gathered the men around him and notified them that they would receive their orders when they reached the battlefield. Many wondered if they would even reach the battlefield to receive those orders.

 

They had heard a number of stories from survivors of fiftieth company about the battle, albeit in rambling, incoherent voices. Some kind of weather disturbance had been reported over the skies of Kralvar about a month ago. The weather minister proclaimed it was simply a cyclonic formation that was being fueled by the warm summer months; however, when the rockcrete and plasteel fortified tracking station set up next to the event was destroyed, people began to worry. That worry soon turned to outright hysteria when the Planetary Governor declared martial law shortly before jettisoning off-world in a heavily guarded Arvus Lighter. At first, most of the Guardsmen stationed on Kralvar were relegated to peacekeeping in the larger hives, and Marxis was glad that he was stationed next to his home sector. Things quickly changed when the disturbance began to show signs of taint. The clouds became noticeably darker, and a number of citizens who hadn’t been evacuated claimed at the local Arbites sector houses to see faces and daemonic images in the clouds, shortly before being detained for their troubles. Across the planet, astropaths were being executed shortly after attacking their handlers and mutating in a number of “non-sanctioned” ways. The evacuation efforts were nearly halted when a refugee ship’s astropath lost control of its abilities and obliterated the ships engines, causing the massive transport to crash into the planet’s main starport. Before the casualties could even be counted, the attacks began.

 

As the last man of Gamma Company packed himself into the last Chimera and Leman Russ, prometheum-churning engines belched acrid smoke, and the sound of clanking treads filled the air. Inside of the Chimera, Fools Errant, Marxis and his squad readied themselves for war and death. Being one of the few literate people in the platoon, O’Reilly was made to read from a handful of scriptures written in High Gothic. He attempted to read the Ninth Cant of Weapons Preparedness from an oily parchment that bore the Adeptus Mechanicus’ seal, but a series of large bumps interrupted the ceremony. Jones pounded his fist on the door to the driver’s cabin, but Griafino tugged at his flak armor. He didn’t need to say a word; all he did was point his thumb through one of the eye-slits in the side of the transport. Jones simply bowed his head when he came to the conclusion that what had caused the sudden turbulence were corpses. Thousands upon thousands of dead bodies lined the streets of the Hive City, others were pounded into the floor, dismembered, or lay partially inside demolished buildings. Some were clearly Imperial Guard; they wore the markings of Baker Companies blue-tinged suits. Most were now stained a ruddy purple by the blood that soaked them. Others, however, were a far different sight.

 

Every so often, a body would appear that didn’t seem human. It looked like it was little more than a civilian caught in the brutal crossfire from a distance. Closer inspection revealed things most men who lived that day refused to speak of. Teeth and folds of flesh overlapping more gnashing teeth and spines ran rampant over a number of “people”. Some were hideously misshapen beasts that bore little or no resemblance to their former humanity, with dog-like faces and brutal claws still clutching on to viscous gore. Not even the most grotesque Mutants in the barrens of the chemically stained under-hives could hold a candle to these fiends in appearance. Not a one of them had the same type of changes made to their forms, but they all shared a feature that frightened the members of Gamma Company the most: a star with eight points superimposed over a smoke-like swirl with a circle in the middle.

 

Marsters vomited, but few could blame him. Another man in the Chimera followed suit. As the vehicle sputtered to an abrupt stop, the hatch of the rear burst open, revealing a blood-stained Guardsman ushering them out. The man looked like he’d seen the Warp a hundred times, and he may very well have. Not questioning their own mission, the members of the squad disembarked the transport and crouched, awaiting their orders. As they waited, they began to hear the melody of Sector 43: the slamming door-like clap of bolters intermingling with screams and the occasional zing of a lasgun. On top of that, however, was something unexpected…a whisper. It was barely audible, and was perfectly illegible, but there was an oddly unnerving definitiveness to it. It wasn’t the rushing air, and it certainly wasn’t the smoke gushing forth from the Chimera. It was coming from someone’s mouth in some bizarre language, but nobody could see the point of origin. They didn’t dare question another out of fear they would be deemed insane.

 

As the tension nearly broke to the surface, a grim man in a long, black coat stepped into sight. He was older than any of them, but seemed no more than fifty standard years. His face was partially hidden behind a wide-brimmed cap common among members of the Commissariat, and his chin had a cavernous scar that had healed a lighter color than the rest of his bronzed tone. Amidst the smoke of the burning city and prometheum smog, Marxis couldn’t really tell who he was looking at. Speaking so sharply it startled them, the man began,

 

“I am Commissar Ulrin. You are to obey my command as if it were the word of the Emperor himself. If you do this, there is a chance you will live, am I understood?” The men gave a resounding affirmative. “Good. I don’t wish to know your names, I have seen far too many of you who look far too much alike. You will dislike me, I promise you, but when this is all said and done, you will all receive your reward: glory in the next life fighting by the Emperor’s side. Am I understood?” They did, but they agreed immediately that they disliked him. He gave the order to follow him through a back alley, and the squad began to run.

 

The Commissar ducked and weaved through mangled wrecks of Leman Russ tanks and the unidentifiable remains of other machines. As they walked, Marxis noticed that the frequency in which the bodies lay slain began to increase. He swore that he saw a number of Guardsmen still alive, bleeding from heinous wounds and mumbling incoherently in their last moments. He wondered what in the name of Terra could have done such things. He found out quickly.

 

Without warning, Ulrin stopped beside a hulk of what was left of a Rhino transport. The squad followed suit and awaited instructions from their commander. He pointed to Marsters and ordered him to scan the area. He began to climb unsteadily on the undercarriage of the Rhino and looked up. He didn’t say three words when a snaking tentacle coiled around his neck and rotated his head three hundred sixty degrees. As his body fell on top of Jones, most of the rest of the squad was doing whatever it could to hold whatever was attacking them at bay. The Commissar was firing in some kind of controlled frenzy at the protrusion, taking hunks of red skin off in the process. A stray round from Griafino’s lasgun removed about a foot of length from the unnatural limb, and an ear-piercing shriek radiated from the other side of the Rhino.

 

As the frenetic firing continued, the Rhino which they were behind began to rumble and shake, as if the very ground itself were giving way. The Commissar motioned the order to fall back, and was among the first to begin running away from the transport. Marxis was barely able to get out of the way as the beast in possession of the tentacle shoved the Rhino upright, revealing itself. The first thing most of them saw was the body of a man. From neck to foot it appeared to be an average person, and even had a pair of sackcloth pants. From the neck up, however, the body was being suspended in midair by a mass of writhing, tubular extrusions, each one longer and more hideous than the last. Some of the men were wholly stunned by the repulsive sight, too frightened to fire. The Commissar, on the other hand, was firing away with his lasgun with reckless abandon.

 

 

With Ulrin’s example in mind, the men began to sporadically fire upon the warp-spawn, each connecting shot sending fountains of purple ichor flying in the dense air. Spike-like whips lashed at the Guardsmen, but they held their ground, firing until their shoulders hurt and then fired some more. Many of the tentacles began to buckle underneath its own, unnatural weight as round after round punctured and pierced its mottled flesh. Jones grabbed a frag-grenade from his bandolier and hurled it towards the abomination. A tentacle bearing an over-toothed maw ingested the explosive device as if it had been tossed a hunk of meat, and as the members of the squad ducked for cover, the thing began to shake and convulse as it imploded, sending chunks of red and purple gore flying into the air. Wriggling tentacles still quivered on the floor as the men stood and said their respects to Marsters who now lay crushed underneath the remains of the Rhino. They didn’t feel it was appropriate to look for his head.

 

The squad was moving again, ducking under sporadic bursts of heavy-stubber fire and bolters fired from windows in the hive. Crouching in a large crater made by the implosion of a Leman Russ’ core, they awaited High Commands next order. Griafino’s vox-unit was sputtering out incoherent hissing and garbled orders, until the whisper they heard at the beginning of their little excursion reappeared. It started low, as if caught behind the background static, but it soon matched then overtook the noise of the vox-unit. Griafino dropped the receiver in fear, and the bulky plas-tek device splashed in a small puddle. Commissar Ulrin had drawn his laspistol and was about to obliterate the possessed machine when a familiar voice began to replace the eerie hum. The man stooped down and picked up the receiver, not even worrying about brushing off the mud and silt. The rest of the team couldn’t decipher what was being said, but the expression on Ulrin’s face told them everything. His face, bleak as it was before, was simply pale now. His other hand now shakily put his laspistol back in its holster, although it took a try or two. If there was one thing an Imperial Guardsmen feared the most, it was a look of fear on the eyes of a Commissar.

 

“Men,” his cracking voice said, “we have been chosen to eliminate the leader of this incursion. The rest of the Strike Force is fighting diversionary attacks towards the East, giving us the opportunity to gain access to the city center where we believe the enemy leader is located. Additionally, the other ten squads deployed in our aid have not reported their positions and are believed lost. If we manage to destroy this villain, Emperor willing, this entire conflict will end.” The words almost seemed to reassure him. O’Reilly spoke up, asking what most of the other men were thinking,

 

“Who is this guy we’re going after?” The Commissar closed his eyes, hoping they wouldn’t ask that one yet. He took a deep breath and collected himself, then said to them as sternly as all of his previous orders,

 

“We are dealing with the most abominable of traitors. He…it,” he said, correcting himself midway as if the thought of even considering this thing as remotely human was blasphemy, “is a daemon, a fell Astartes who has given his soul in exchange for lies and witchcraft.” Gaped mouths and mumbled prayers answered him. “I feel that you will be better prepared in mind and soul if you knew the truth.” The men couldn’t be shocked anymore. This was just bad news stacked on the worst day of their lives, and quite possibly the last.

 

The people of Kralvar had been told stories of the great Space Marines that fought side by side with the Holy Emperor of Mankind millennia before. They had been told the tales of the Great Crusade and the might of the Primarchs, their daily exploits greater than the best achievements a mortal man made in his entire life. They were also told about the darker times. The Ecclesiarchs had spoken word of the great heresy, the time when the cruel and evil lords of the Warp had tempted and swayed half of these demigods into becoming their twisted pawns, making them go so far as to betray the Emperor himself, and leave him enthroned on Terra, broken, but not defeated. Of all the minions of darkness they had been warned about, one style of villain stood out in this situation: the Sorcerer, the purveyor of treachery and forbidden magic, parleying deals with daemons and other abominations in pursuit of power. Of all the things that a Kralvarian didn’t want to be near, this was one of the greatest…and they were being ordered to kill one.

 

This was a suicide mission that much was certain. With Ulrin’s permission, O’Reilly spoke the last rites for unit. He hadn’t attended services in nearly a year, and was by no means a man of faith, but at this point he did it to calm his squads nerves. The men gathered their weapons and climbed out of the foxhole. Scanning left and right, the men looked for signs that might give away their targets presence. Nothing on the battlefield seemed any different than anything else: wrecked machines, stains of blood, scattered body parts and fallen weaponry. It wasn’t until they looked up did they find their answer. Swirling in the air was the massive, purple and blue-tinged vortex, a massive cloud of pure evil that was occasionally illuminated by crimson streaks of lightning. The epicenter of this charnel was situated over Sector 25, a transition point between the under-hive and the over-hive.

 

Most people from the over-hive knew to stay away from S25, as it came to be known, because of the rampant kidnappings and murders that occurred. Mutant hive-gangers prowled the fences that blocked off S25 from S26, and even the local Arbites had trouble keeping riots contained when said fences collapsed. On more than one occasion, O’Reilly and the rest of the men had been ordered to suppress mutant uprisings that occurred, and he’d come to know the layout of the streets fairly well, even if only to memorize the places where ganger-snipers liked to hide. These mutants, however, were business as usual in the hives, as petty ganger politics would oftentimes spill into the greater populace. He was expecting anything from S25. That is, except, what he found.

 

As the squad moved through the dank alleys of the hive, a noticeable upswing in activity began. One horrendous creature after another appeared in their way, each one more disgustingly deformed than the last. Commissar Ulrin made sure his men made them equally as dead. He charged in headlong as the monstrosities came forth, peppering the diabolic things with laspistol fire mixed with the rounds fired by his men. Most of them became deafened by the near-constant las-fire and grenades; they now proceeded to move by hand signals.

 

The closer they came to the edge of Sector 25, the more it seemed to no longer be Sector 25. At first, the squad assumed that the ground was cracking because of the extreme abuse put under it by warfare and the heavy treads of vehicles, but soon, the rockcrete pavement began to float so many inches above the ground. Most of them didn’t notice this phenomena until Jones tripped over a block of roadway that had up-ended itself. As they progressed towards the sinister funnel, more and more of the road seemed to no longer be on the ground, as if mocking the Emperor-given laws of nature. O’Reilly might not have been a very diligent man in his prayers, but he was making up for lost time as he crossed the desolate wastes of S25. He spoke as many wards of protection as he could remember, not risking to stutter a single syllable of the High Gothic chants. He soon noticed that a good number of the other men in his squad were feebly trying to copy him in an attempt to share some of the Emperor’s grace. He hoped it would be enough to aid them in this near-hopeless quest.

 

Their prayers were cut short by the droning cries of hundreds of voices. From all around them, screams and pleas seemed to emanate from every edifice of every building. The Commissar ordered them to take defensive positions and await whatever was coming in what seemed to be a crater made by a stray Basilisk artillery round. Resting their lasguns on the lip of the hole for support, they trained their eyes through the blue-tainted fog. The groans became louder and more disparate, and hope seemed to drain from the men from that terrible sound alone. They weren’t going to defeat what was coming, and since they couldn’t do that, there was no chance in the Warp that they would be able to beat a Chaos Space Marine.

 

The men no longer feared death, for they could hear it coming, carried on hundreds of mutated feet with claws and teeth to match. As the first of the mutated freaks appeared from the miasma, a lasgun round dropped it in an instant. This seemed to be the command to attack; as the gangers’ body fell limp on the floor, the street exploded with huddled, twisted bodies. Abominations of all sizes poured onto the street, their drooling mouths bared gnarled fangs that seemed to drip with fresh gore from previous victims. The squad ensured that the creatures would taste their last meal. A horizontal wall of crimson beams cut away at the advancing horde, and clumsier mutants found themselves tripping over the corpses of others. Some of them bore crude axes and knives, some had makeshift pistols, while others had swords that looked to be Imperial issue, most likely stolen from the bodies of slain Sergeants. The men avenged the deaths of those loyal servants of the Emperor with the deaths of these blasphemous mutants. Power cells began to run dry after pumping as much red death as they could into the mass, and the men took turns reloading and firing.

 

For all of their primitive techniques and lack of technology, the gangers were advancing. Even as scores of their kind died in turn, they continued their slovenly march. Most of the men’s weapons were nearly drained, and it would only be a matter of time until they were fighting the mutants hand-to-hand, a situation none of them could survive, given the numbers. One rather wiry freak leapt from the crowd and tried to claw at the men in a dive. Jones, who had hunted Shis-birds in his youth, plinked the creature out of the sky, and it landed with a cracking thud on the pavement a few yards away from the lip of the crater. If they were that close, they thought, the monsters could charge in and swarm them in a mass of bodies, a tide of sickly brown and purple hulks that would engulf them in a wave of death. Commissar Ulrin, realizing their situation, ordered them to fall back. The only problem with this was that most of the ground behind them was levitating above an infinitely reaching chasm. If they wanted to get anywhere safe, they would have to go through the mob of mutants in front of them.

 

“Men! For all of your faults, I can say that the Emperor will smile upon us in the next world. In His name, bring them death!” He shouted this while unleashing his saber, firing with one hand and preparing for his last moments of glorious combat. As the men backed out of the crater they had holed up in, the mutants were making their way to it’s’ lip, climbing over the mounds of corpses that had accumulated in the process. All of the squad had made its way out of the hole, save for Griafino. The men shouted at him to follow, lest he be mobbed by the nigh-unstoppable tide of freaks. Soon they noticed his leg; it was a bloodies mess, hit by a stray round fired from one of the monsters stub pistols. He gave a quick glance towards Marxis like he did hours before at Jones, telling him all he needed to know. O’Reilly began chanting the Blessings of the Departed Soul as Griafino grabbed the pins to the frag-grenades on his bandolier. He pulled them faster than the men could see and rushed towards a mutant with two faces and stabbed the bayonet of his lasgun into its distended throat. As the monstrous being fell, Griafino jerked the lasgun out and jammed it into one final creature as the grenades exploded in an orange and crimson plume of fire. More than a hundred of the bunched mob were shredded by fragments of shrapnel and bone from closer mutants. The squad had flattened themselves to the floor and watched as nearly a dozen still breathing gangers, carried by the force of the explosion, were dropped into the abyss behind them. Some of them smacked cleanly against the levitating chunks of rockcrete and descended, the expanse tearing them into shreds via bright, white bolts of electricity.

 

 

Marxis said a final prayer as the last of the men stood up again and fired upon the mutants, most of which were still on the floor, flattened by the shockwave the explosion had caused. Those creatures that weren’t affected by the blast were angry now, and ran towards the men full bore. As heavy boots crushed bone underfoot, the previously somewhat slow advance was replaced by a furious charge as gangers and other abominations fell face first into the crater. This gave the squad an excellent opportunity to mow them down, and body after body fell as hole after hole perforated the twisted things. After a few moments, every lasgun was almost completely spent. As the mutants heard the distinct click of a dry power cell, they roared abhumanly and rushed towards the intruders. One creature clawed its way up the lip, but was beaten back down into the pit by the butt of Jones’ lasgun. The end had come, and the members of Alpha Company were ready, as service laspistols and knives were drawn in favor of their lasguns.

 

The pit was so clogged with bodies that it was now possible to cross from one end to the other by walking across the dead forms. As one exceptionally large mutant began to take notice of this and sprinted, a streak of crimson lightning fell from the swirling skies and struck the ogre; the resulting thunder was deafening. This event had not only caused the large mutant to stop advancing, it had stopped the whole of the mob. Many of the squad took advantage of this and took easy shots at the freaks, sending chunks of discolored brain matter flying. As the horde stared at the sky, their advance turned into a retreat. Two of the Guardsmen began to chase after them, but the Commissar ordered them back. Whatever had caused the gangers to flee couldn’t be seen, and as most Imperial citizens knew, what you can’t understand, you should fear. He ordered the men to take refuge in a partially destroyed hab-unit that had stairs which led higher up. The Commissar ordered Jones and another Guardsman onto the second story as the rest of the squad scanned the area from their location.

 

“What do you see?” the Commissar asked.

 

“Not a damn thing in this fog… but you should really look at the sky. Something bad’s happening, I’m sure of it.” As he pointed, the men looked up at the sky which was now roiling with activity. Peals of thunder were almost constant as the red bursts of lightning they had seen became more and more irregular. Some seemed to take bizarre shapes, and others seemed to make the outline of some unknown figure. Suddenly, misshapen bolts of blood-tinged lightning struck the body-choked crater. Strike after strike landed, as if following some sort of instructions from an unseen master. Ulrin ordered his men to ready their pistols towards the activity. As the storm of lightning began to dissipate, a bizarre electrical charge began to pulsate within the teeming pile of corpses. The stench of burning flesh and hair began to overpower the men, and even Ulrin had a hard time choking back the vomit. The flowing electricity soon began to make the hair of the men stand on end and the pile began to float, held aloft by tendrils of red light. Before the men’s eyes, the bodies of the mutants began to fuse together in a sort of disgusting tapestry, as if the men were little more than a canvas on which the commander of the unnatural electricity painted his blasphemous designs. Singed body parts began to form legs and sheared bones formed vicious claws. Flayed skin began to envelope the shape that was now somewhat dog-like, with a skull made of fused bones and teeth. The men were too astounded and repulsed to do anything, even the Commissar.

 

As the last scraps of flesh overlapped the sharpened spine of this creature spawned of madness, two more lightning strikes gouged holes that formed the eyes of this abomination that soon glowed with an evil blue flame. Skin began to tear at what could be considered the “mouth” of this being as it roared like some kind of primordial monster. The first person to begin shooting at this Warp-spawn was Jones. He had been driven near madness at the very sight of the thing before him and was firing in sheer panic. The rest of the squad, inspired by his “bravery” joined him in shooting at the beast impotently, the rounds barely harming the daemonic creature. It took its revenge on its initial attacker by whipping out an incredibly long prehensile tongue that wrapped itself around Jones’s waist. He struggled to remove it from his person, but it was simply too strong. It yanked him once, and he fell two stories onto the ground, yet he didn’t die. His arm was broken backward and he now screamed and clawed at the ground for help. The men fired whatever they could at the spawn, aiming at the tongue, head, or whatever else might cause it to release their friend. It was Commissar Ulrin who ended the dispute; he placed a single, well aimed laspistol round into Jones’ head. He faced the men who gave him a saddened, but understanding look. He would expect any of them to give him the same honor.

 

The beast now sucked in Jones’ body unimpeded and swallowed him in two enormous bites, the first sending a shower of blood across the hab-unit. The place smelled even more of death than it did before. Marxis drew the other Naval Issue Laspistol he had holstered and placed as many shots as he could land into the hellish thing’s forehead. The beast recoiled; the near-ancient pistol was made when such devices were much stronger than the “glow-sticks” the rest of the squad had come to be acquainted with. With a guttural howl, the creature reared back on its haunches and stared directly at Marxis. As he looked into the beasts gaze, he began to see things…terrible things. The air around his became cloudy, or at least more so. His peripheral vision took on a blue tinge that seemed to fog over slowly. He wasn’t sure what was happening to him, so he looked over to the Commissar. He was terrified to see that his flesh was completely missing. His clothes were gone and yet his skeleton remained upright. Unholy fangs soon grew from his incisors. As he watched in horror, smoldering red embers soon began to burn in what were Ulrin’s’ eye sockets. As he looked around, he saw that the rest of the squad was suffering the same fate, and they stared at him with a furious lust for his soul.

 

He wanted to raise his laspistol; by the Emperor’s name he wished that he could. Try as he might, he couldn’t even raise his arms. He could hear the other men call his name. He heard them ask what he was doing. He heard them, but couldn’t respond. Every muscle in his body was frozen. Even his eyes were held stiff, staring into the maw of the corpse-made beast. In an instant, it all came back to him: the air, his movement, and blessedly, the flesh on his comrades’ bodies. Angered by his lack of willpower, he lifted the ancient weapon again and placed a few more round in the things now charred skull. It was angry now; its’ teeth clenched, causing blood from dozens of amalgamated mutants to flow down its mottled chin. The thing pounced, bringing a deathly claw to rest on his chest and right arm. Marxis screamed, still clutching his laspistol in his bloodied hand. He tried to twist his shattered wrist towards the beast to land a shot, but that same tongue that had dragged Jones to his miserable death now wrapped itself around his hand. From whatever nerve endings that had survived the attack, bolts of pain now shot from his mangled fist as spikes began to protrude from the spawns’ tongue. It shredded his hand into pulp, and he could feel the thing feeding off his crimson essence.

 

Soon, it retracted its tongue, displaying what was left of his hand to the open air. Spurts of blood shot from it, causing Marxis to scream. He begged in his mind that the Commissar would end his life, but the beast was blocking his line of fire. As he opened his clenched eyes and ended his hollow prayers for death, he was again greeted by the hellacious eyes of the daemon. It almost seemed to smile at him as if taking some measure of maligned pleasure in his suffering. A waft of breath came at him that made him wish to gag in spite of his screaming. It was an indescribable mix of rotten, burning flesh and something worse, as if the Warp was assailing both his nostrils and his eyes. He could still hear laspistol shot after another smack against the things back powerlessly. Marxis took a deep breath. At least it was ending soon, and that brought him more comfort than any prayer could. Showing the Guardsman its gore-laced “grin”, it reared its head back for the bite that would surely decapitate him. His sight blurred and his hearing dissipated. This is what you felt before you died, Marxis thought. As his glazed eyes looked up, he could see the thing howl. He didn’t hear it; he could feel the rumbling from its vibrations in his feet. Strangely though, that same rumbling feeling continued long after it had closed its distended mouth.

 

Marxis slowly felt the weight upon his chest lighten, as if it were releasing him. As air again reached his eyes, he looked up and saw that the monster was preoccupied with something to the south. The rumbling began to feel more and more familiar as his senses came back to him, and soon, hearing an almost constant staccato zip of a weapon, his mind placed what it was: it was a Mars-pattern Hellgun. He stood disarmed, literally and figuratively, and witnessed the sight. Two men in bizarre clothes were attacking the Warp-spawn, and looked to be winning. One of the men was tall, with dark, short cut hair, wielding that Hellgun as expertly as member of the Cadian Kasrkin units he had been told of. He raked the thing with fire, knocking it onto its side, allowing the other man to advance. The other was apparently much older and held a strange pattern of Flamer and a large book. As he held open its pages for the thing to see, it convulsed, as if sickened by the very sight of what was on it. With its head turned, the man bathed the creature in prometheum flame. It spasmed as it burned, flailing its limbs in every direction and Marxis held back a wave of nausea as the scent of engulfed flesh mixed with the sounds of the creatures’ bones breaking under its own violent death-throes. The older man lifted the large book and yelled out through an augmetically enhanced voice,

 

“In the name of the Emperor of Mankind, I deem this being of the Warp diabolus! With the blessing of Him Enthroned on Holy Terra, I strike down at thee with His wrath as my guide.” As he said this, he closed the metal-covered volume and brought it down upon the thing that had killed Jones and taken Marxis’ hand. The book seemed to absorb itself into the flesh of the beast, sending jets of blood and ichor into the air. It shrieked in their minds, not believing that it was truly dying. Men fell to their knees in horrendous pain, and even the Hellgun-toting figure seemed to wince. Yet, as sparks exploded from the impact point, the screaming seemed to die away, like smoke flowing and dissipating in the wind. Whatever this stranger had done, it had killed the warp-blasphemy.

 

Marxis shambled towards the men to thank them, broken though he was. He owed them his life, and wanted them to know so. Before he could let a word out, he felt someone’s hand grab him by the shoulder and force him to his knees. Startled, he turned his head to see Commissar Ulrin on his knees as well. He held his head down as if cowed by the very men’s presence. He couldn’t understand what was happening until he took a closer look at his saviors. They were dressed in long, black cloaks that covered their heads and seemed to be hiding suits of armaplas and ceramite. They bore a number of Holy Imperialis’ on their person, but one piece of ornamentation stood out above all the others…matching Inquisitorial Rosettes. In his ruined state, he felt almost vulgar to be in the presence of these men. He had shown fear when faith should have taken its place, and felt that the younger Inquisitor was moments away from obliterating him with that fearsome Hellgun he bore. To his surprise, he was still alive. The old man removed his hood, displaying a number of augmetic implants that covered a quarter of his aging skull. As the wind blew his wispy, graying hair, he spoke in a loud, unaugmented, basso tone unlike one he would expect of someone of his appearance.

 

“By order of the Emperor’s Inquisition, I am commandeering this unit. My name is Inquisitor Fonidere Complus, and this is Inquisitor Torvillus Belmarck,” he said, gesturing to the other man who refused to remove his hood, “The Great Enemy is enacting its twisted schemes here on Kralvar!” The two almost seemed surprised as the news failed to shock them at this point. “In a few hours, the Sorcerer you…we are seeking will open a portal that will allow all manner of daemon upon this mortal plain, and we will not let this happen.” As his warning ended, a Chimera began to crawl its way towards them. At least, it seemed like a Chimera. The thing was little more than a civilian medium transport’s body welded onto a Chimera chassis, with a dozer blade that most of the men assumed was for pushing away the many corpses it would have otherwise run over. It had a makeshift tarp of sackcloth thrown over its rear and bore a number of holes of varying size. A Guardsman in a plas-tek mask hopped out of the cabin, gave the Inquisitors a crisp salute and dashed to the back of the Chimera. Some of the men looked at the driver’s armor and attitude and saw that neither had seen much combat. After a moment or two, the man returned lugging two large, stacked crates. The men huddled around the crates and pondered at their contents. The man named Torvillus brushed the men away with the muzzle of his Hellgun and violently kicked one of the crates open, destroying the lock, and frightening the masked delivery boy. A smile of some measure or another came over each of the men. That smile only widened as they gazed at the precious cargo.

 

Guns…lots of guns. As more and more identical armaplas crates came, the men praised the Emperor that his forge worlds made so many guns. The sound of whirring capacitors filled the murky air, and sighs followed soon after. The men stocked up on as many grenades as their clothes would allow them, and Marxis took notice of a pair of laspistols laid in opposite directions. He reached for them, but couldn’t take hold of them. Although he could still feel the appendage, his hand was gone, taken by the daemon just as it had taken Jones. One of the other Guardsmen brushed his stump away, shouting at him to bleed on someone else’s lasguns. The Inquisitor named Fonidere seemed to take notice of his predicament.

 

“You…boy!” he shouted at the direction of the driver, “have you anything for our friends problem?” The small Guardsman shook his masked head in the negative.

 

“No, my lord, but I can get him to a Medicae facility back at base.” The old man shook his head in the affirmative, and the driver went back into the Chimera. Marxis, not to be shrugged off so lightly, placed his good hand on the imposing mans’ elbow and said meekly,

 

“Please, don’t. Whatever it is we’re hunting took my hand, and part of my family. I have to see this through!” He was pleading now, and the man seemed to take pity on him. He glanced around in thought and peered towards his hooded comrade.

 

“Torvillus, have you any ideas?” This caused the figure to smile broadly. He sauntered over to the wounded man and raised his Hellgun. Marxis cried out as he heard the shot. Again, he was relieved to find that he wasn’t dead as one shot after another rang out. The man didn’t seem to be firing at anything, and Marxis thought the silent figure might have been a bit crazy. Suddenly, the man grabbed the elbow of his wounded arm and pressed the gory stump deeply against the red-hot muzzle of the Hellgun, cauterizing the wound with a hiss and a plume of steam. Marxis screamed out in horrendous pain and fell to the floor. The older Inquisitor gave his subordinate a stern glance; he took note of it after a few moments and said as casually as if he’d just taken out the laundry in a deeply graveled voice,

 

“That’ll stop the bleeding long enough for him to be useful.” Five minutes later, the squad was ready again; weapons were reloaded and Marxis had regained his footing. Upon the Inquisitors order, the men hopped into the now vacant rear of the transport. The elderly Inquisitor spoke with the driver before embarking.

 

“Do you know where you must go?”

 

“No, my lord,” the boyish voice replied. The man raised his arm and pointed towards the vortex which was now beginning to create a funnel of blackened smog.

 

“I believe I understand, my lord,” he said, rather unhappily. The Inquisitor smiled and entered the rear of the vehicle where the other men were waiting. The Chimera now had seven people in it: Marxis, Commissar Ulrin, the two Inquisitors, and three other Guardsmen. Marxis pressed himself to remember their names, but he couldn’t. He was startled when the old man placed a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Don’t worry about such things, Marxis O’Reilly. Questions like those can only lead to sorrow.” He was stunned. He’d heard rumors of the Inquisitions use of sanctioned Psykers in the retinue of certain members of their orders, but he wouldn’t have believed that they actually made Psykers Inquisitors. Marxis tried to clear his mind lest he think of things heretical. Trying something new to think about was actually simple. He looked at his good hand and saw his father’s laspistol. Though he’d tried, he failed to destroy that daemon, and it took both Jones and his grandfather’s heirloom. He would gladly have given both of his hands if it would mean he could get that laspistol back. Marxis tried to lay his head in his hand, but couldn’t; there was no hand there. He squeezed the grip of his laspistol so tightly his remaining knuckles turned white above the stains of blood, and swore silently to himself. The engine of the Chimera shot to life, and the familiar sound of treads fluttered through the air.

 

For a machine as large as the Chimera, the driver commanded if as if it were an assault bike, making hard, gliding turns. A number of the men desperately wanted to either have the driver shot, or to have vehicle stop entirely. Some of the men decided to spend their miserable time questioning the Inquisitors.

 

“How’d you guys get here?” one of the men asked.

 

“We used a low-flying Thunderhawk to drop us and this Chimera off,” Fonidere replied, “You’re rather fortunate you were where you were at the time; we’d landed not a mile away from where you were located, and I’m sure we would have missed you if we’d decided not to land any further away.” Some of the men stared down at the cold iron grating of the bottom of the Chimera and wondered just what in the name of the Emperor fortune was. They were throwing themselves into the pit itself, and this man has the brass to say they were fortunate? Two of the three nameless Guardsmen remained silent, but the third decided to ask a question.

 

“How did you guys find out about all of this? This whole mess only began about a few weeks ago, and we’ve been having trouble getting messages in or out.” The old Inquisitor chuckled and replied,

 

“I thought that was simple, you see, we…” He wouldn’t finish. A series of blasts brought the Chimera to a screeching halt. The occupants dashed from the vehicle and ducked on either side, not knowing where their attacker was. Scattered ruins could have hidden any kind of enemy: hidden artillery, mortar emplacements, even a band of madmen with krak grenades. Commissar Ulrin moved to survey the damage. There was a uniform zigzag of scorched blast marks running a hundred yards in either direction from where he was kneeling. Flak from the blasts had kicked up so much dust, it was nearly choking. Ulrin wouldn’t admit it, but he swore he saw…something in the misty air. It would have been a face to him, had there not been fangs. Whatever had done this wasn’t bound by the will of the Emperor, and thusly wasn’t worthy of life. Cautiously moving to the side of the transport, Ulrin yanked the battered door open; he then shifted on his heels when the driver’s corpse fell limply out of the seat. What was left of his head was peppered with shrapnel and rocks. His now shattered mask revealed a gaping, horror-stricken mouth and eyes now wide open in shock. As he laid his fingers on his eyelids, he heard one of the Inquisitor’s shout,

 

“What is the driver’s condition?”

 

“Dead, sir.”

 

“Pity, I saw promise in him. What do you think happened, Commissar?”

 

“Vulture. They enemy somehow got their hands on a gunship. We need to get out of here.” A series of cries now echoed out from the ruins. The men stood and readied their newly acquired weapons. The noise came from everywhere, but the things making them were nowhere to be seen. The hooded Inquisitor began to usher and shove the other men into the Chimera once more. Before entering himself, Inquisitor Complus said to Ulrin,

 

“I believe you are right, Commissar, make haste!” Ulrin wasted no time in entering the transport. He tried closing the door, but it was too badly damaged to do so properly. Ignoring that, he looked for the ignition switch that activated the vehicle, and pressed it as hardly as he could. The machine sputtered to life with a belch of smoke, and after slamming his foot down on the accelerator, made haste towards the former Parade Street of S25. As the transport sped along, the occupants of the vehicle waited anxiously. They didn’t know what was going to happen, but they wanted to be prepared. They didn’t expect the vehicle to stop again, either, but it did. The Inquisitor named Torvillus pulled his head over the top of the cloth cover of the Chimera and yelled out,

 

“What in the name of Him Enthroned are you…oh.” He stopped himself mid-tirade. Motioning his superior to join him, they looked at the sight: from one side of the broad parade route, for nearly a mile, the malevolent denizens of S25 were gathered. They wielded axes and clubs of all make and size, some with nails embedded within them, and others that heinously dissolved into the flesh of its unholy wielder. Luckily, these beasts likely hadn’t seen sight of the Imperial Guard, as they couldn’t hear any sound of stolen firearms. They were advancing in a slow march, closing the half-mile or so gap between them. The younger Inquisitor leapt from the rear, entered the passenger’s side of the makeshift Chimera, and used the muzzle of his Hellgun to smash out what was left of the windshield. He propped his weapon on the dash of the transport and barked at the Commissar,

 

“Go!” Ulrin didn’t question what the man said, and floored it. The Chimera dashed towards the mob at full bore. The other Inquisitor had told the men what awaited, and they questioned whether it would have been wiser to turn around and avoid the clutches of the mutants. As the cries of discontent continued, they were quickly silenced by the roar of the Vulture gunship’s engines. It circled around them and hovered in place at their rear, dashing any hopes of retreat. Marxis looked at the enemy Vulture and was sickened. The nose-mounted autocannon was inscribed with the eight-pointed star of Chaos in what he hoped was paint, and the top of the twin turbines had a poorly welded shape attached to its top that gave it the grotesque visage of a serpent. Closer inspection revealed that the ship’s pilots weren’t all there. The flesh of their faces was missing, and their eyes peered through their dirty, white eye sockets. The gunner had misplaced his lower jaw, and his tongue hung rather stupidly on his bloodied flight suit.

One of the Guardsmen began to jab at the cloth of the Chimera’s top with his lasguns bayonet. Another grabbed him by the shoulder.

 

“Richards! Are you insane?” Complus gently pulled away the man’s arm and said,

 

“No, Pynius, he’s smart. By cutting away that cover, it eliminates the enemy’s ability to grab hold of us, plus it gives a better view of that blasted gunship. Help him.” Not daring to refuse the order of a member of the Holy Ordos, he did as he was told. As the last of the straps were cut loose, the tarp fluttered into the air, and the Vulture had to maneuver out of its way, lest it cover their view of their prey.

 

This seemed to anger the pilots; the autocannons barrel began to spin. The men in the back of the Chimera noticed the Inquisitor bow his head. They mistook this for prayer, and began to likewise offer their pleas for deliverance. In actuality, Complus was speaking to his protégé telepathically. Torvillus understood at once, and shouted to Ulrin,

 

“Left!” The Chimera jolted in that direction, and they covered their heads as crumbling rockcrete and sandstone was blasted into the air by the autocannon. The Inquisitor shouted another direction, and again the Chimera lurched to the side, barely missing the stream of leaded death being poured at them by the tainted Vulture. Torvillus saw the line of mutants now only seconds away from them; he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on firing his weapon while at the same time acting as copilot. He yelled at Ulrin to switch him places, and the men uncomfortably shuffled in the cramped cabin of the transport. Ulrin nearly burned his face off as the bulk of the Hellgun’s backpack swished next to his nose. With the power cables now resting on his lap, Ulrin took aim at the closest abomination and let loose.

 

A steady thud could be felt in addition to the vibration of the engine, as the Hellgun laid down a punishing volley of las-fire. Whatever “lucky” mutants managed to dodge the bright red beams were quickly torn asunder by the Chimera’s dozer blade. Most were tossed to the side, their feet shorn from their legs, while others were hurled onto the hood of the transport that made up the body of the Chimera; Ulrin quickly butted them aside with a hissing smack of the Hellgun. While this was happening, Torvillus kept his eyes closed as his mentor issued directions to him psychically. The Vulture was firing relentlessly, keeping the vehicle ducking and weaving to avoid being obliterated. As the gunship fired maniacally, the rounds raked the crowd of mutants, sending massive chunks of flesh and bone spraying into the air. Some mutants became enraged at this treachery and threw their clubs at the ship in impotent fury. The end of the crowd was nearing, and Ulrin would have felt relieved if not for the constant rattling of the autocannon fire.

“Master?” Torvillus said without speaking.

 

“What, Belmarck? If you haven’t noticed, I’m a bit busy at present.” He replied tersely.

 

“We’re reaching the end of the crowd. It would be in our best interest if you took care of our ‘guests’ now.” Complus broke the psychic link without another word and now concentrated his attention on the Vulture. The men, who were previously firing potshots at the mobs of mutants, now shifted their own attentions on the gunship, which was now swaying and dipping irregularly. From what they could see, the skull-faced pilots were clutching their exposed heads in what looked to be severe pain. They nearly gasped when they saw the windshield of the cockpit burst in a spray of blood and brain matter. With its pilots dead, the Vulture had little where else to go but down. Torvillus pushed on the accelerator for all it had as the Chimera ran to avoid the careening gunship. It hit no more than twenty feet behind them, and it rolled in a lazy cartwheel on its side as gravity eventually took hold of the blasphemous weapon. Dozens of mutants were atomized as the ships weapons exploded, and a few krak missiles spiraled into the air and detonated with an ear-splitting boom. Many of the Guardsmen breathed in a sigh of relief as the last of the mutants faded into the mist of the kicked up sand of the parade route. Marxis, however, sat uncomfortably as an unnatural chill seemed to emanate from the Inquisitor.

 

“That should keep those freaks pretty occupied, right?” the Guardsman named Pynius said hopefully. He stared at the Inquisitor attentively as he remained silently still. After a moment, the man opened his eyes, and the chill seemed to fade. A somewhat forced smile came onto his face and said as cheerily as he could,

 

“Indeed it will. We should have no trouble completing our mission now.” This bittersweet news swept the smile from the man’s face, and he held his head in somber diligence. The Inquisitor sensed this grave feeling and patted his shoulder.

 

“Worry not, for the Emperor guides our hand. Feel joy in that he has shielded you from the evils of the Warp, and take pride in that he will continue to shield you from evil as long as you are faithful.” Pynius and the other Guardsmen took great comfort from the Inquisitor’s words. Marxis, his destroyed hand still in extreme pain, laughed slightly and asked,

 

“Was that the Ninth Conveyance of the Emperor’s Blessings?” The old man’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

 

“Indeed it was. You seem to be well read in the area of faith.” Marxis ducked his eyes to the floor, lest he let the Inquisitor see his outward pride. He was then surprised to see the Inquisitor squint his eyes and press his fingers to his temple. The look on his face seemed agitated.

 

“Fonidere?”

 

“In the Emperor’s name, give me a sign when you’re going to do that! You know how I hate it when you try to communicate with me when I let my guard down.”

 

“I think it would be a rather bad idea for you to let your guard down any more. See what I see.” Closing out his mind to physical distractions, Complus focused his minds eye on Belmarck’s vision. Torvillus was apparently skyward, as he could see the Chimera on his left, and the mob of hive-gangers bashing away at the wreckage of the downed Vulture below him to the right. Suddenly, he began to drift from this overhead scene to a lower height, as if he were walking.

The view around him began to blur as he dove forward, through buildings, and across streets. Most of the buildings were emptied, although many bore their former occupants, butchered and left to the cruel wind. The buildings became larger, and more decorated as the former center of the sector came into view. Most of the formerly austere and glorious temples built in reverence to the Emperor were now lying in ruin, burning the blood that had been spilled in them dry. The corpses of the loyal were stacked ten feet high in some places, and the occaisional heretic could be seen dragging bodies around to their final, undignified resting place.

 

 

Fonidere was close to asking what the point was to this little “excursion”, when the town square came into view. The center of the area, formerly a spire that designated where the first colonists landed, was now the epicenter of the ruinous eldritch energies of the vortex. In any other situation, a cyclone such as this would obliterate anything nearby in a rush of wind, but this phenomenon wasn’t natural. Instead, nearly a hundred people stood gathered in a pattern around the disturbance, and each one of them held their outstretched arms towards it. They wore masks that emulated the horrific visages of daemons, and their clothes bore the mark of the god of deception. Eight rows of light pulsed out from the center of the base of the spire, to which a number of levitating stairs reached from the ground. Standing at the fog-covered base was the Sorcerer. In his blue-green tinged armor, it would be easy to mistake this fiend for one of the Emperor’s Angels of Death, if it weren’t for his massive, horned helm. It stared at the place where the vortex touched the ground, looking at sights that would send even the most loyal of them completely insane. Belmarck’s view came closer to the scene, and it became clear that the Sorcerer was reading from some kind of heathenous text. As his view floated over the Sorcerers’ shoulder, he suddenly turned and “faced” them. Belmarck’s outer self rushed back to the Chimera, but a hideous laugh followed them back. As the psychic link dissolved, the two men gave each other cold looks, as cold as the psychically frozen air around them.

 

“He knows that we’re coming, Complus.”

 

“Indeed he does. And we shall not keep him waiting. We wouldn’t want to be remembered for being bad hosts, would we?” The sound of Torvillus cocking his Hellgun gave him his answer. “Will this machine still run?”

 

“Yes, but I wouldn’t want to be in that situation again.”

 

“Agreed. Get us there if you please, Torvillus.” As smoke fumed from the exhaust pipes, Complus sank into his seat and readied himself for a war on this plain and another.

 

“In the name of the Emperor, Belmarck, why must we be anywhere near that thing? I thought we’d buried it for good.” The old man was clearly rattled by the revelation that he was going to be in the presence of the person that nearly ruined him so many years ago. He paced back and forth, spouting as many curses as prayers. “What business do you have with that heretic anyway?” Belmarck understood what anguish the man was under; he’d seen through his eyes true terror and suffering. Luckily, in this case, the truth would do more good than a lie.

 

“Complus has asked for my help. He is in danger, and he’s asked that we give it a few parting questions before we get rid of it for good.” This made Marxis pause. He looked down at the marbled ground and cupped his eyes in his hand. He couldn’t even look at his old friend when he uttered the next few words.

 

“Will we kill it, Torvillus? Will it die?”

 

“Yes.”

 

The ramshackle Chimera sputtered through the once grandiose hab-spires of the central plaza. Icons of Chaos and the Change God were peppered on the walls and on the smoldering tips of the habs, and others were simply destroyed by mortar and lascannon fire with scorched holes and broken walls. Bodies were piled in the thousands across the streets, like some kind of morose crowd watching a singular parade. A Triumph of death. Decaying eyes stared at the occupants of the vehicle, and Marxis, fairly drained of noble constitution, vomited outside the transport. Pynius gave him a once-over and was reassured that he was alright by a quick pat on the elbow. He was alright, but was certainly not comfortable. The whisper that had manifested itself before in the vox-caster and the city had returned. Most of the men tried to keep their minds occupied, but this time, it wasn’t being heard by their psyches. A ghostly murmur echoed out from every corner of the habs, and was only getting stronger as the machine rumbled closer towards the town square. It was now as clear as the iron bells that would ring out from the Ecclesiarchy temples mid-morning as it told them things, unspeakable things. It made offers and promises in exchange for their souls, and demanded sacrifices. Though the men tried to avoid the heretical sound by making songs out of the jangling engine, the whisper simply followed their tunes and mocked their attempts to ignore it. The whisper had no single voice to speak of, it was a cacophony of the pleas and screams of man and woman alike, each one distorted and tainted. Though the sound was horrible, it wasn’t as unnerving as the sights.

 

Men swore they saw creatures dart to and fro from the murky depths of the ruins, and raised their weapons on more than one occasion. Eerie glowing eyes peered through partially shattered windows, and many swore that the eyes of the corpses followed them as they drove past. A low, misty fog enveloped the bottom the Chimera, and the lights Torvillus activated did little to pierce the unnatural vapor. Deep senses of dread were growing in the men’s minds, and fear was overtaking some of the less focused.

 

“Stop this thing, man!” a terrified Pynius exclaimed. A quick twitch of the eyebrows on Complus’ part belayed the command. Pynius’ eyes flitted from one side of the Chimera to another, waiting for some sane person to come to his defense. These lunatics were driving off to their deaths, and they didn’t seem to care! He couldn’t very well let these madmen drag him into their loony quest. “Look, you guys can have your fun, I don’t care, just let me off.” Many of the men became disgusted at this cowardice, and Fonidere could feel the minds of the other men reaching for their weapons; apparently they had shed their terror for revulsion. Opening his eyes so quickly it startled the already shaken Guardsman, the elder Inquisitor simply pointed his head towards the other three men, who took this as a sign to back off. His gaze became rough and uncompassionate as it turned towards Pynius.

 

“You can see the way out, can’t you?” he said, motioning towards the open rear of the moving vehicle. “If you feel your services to the Emperor would be better suited out there, be my guest.” Pynius cracked a weak smile, and practically fell off of the moving Chimera. He rolled a few feet, but stood up unfazed. The Guardsmen stood or leaned and protested loudly for him to come to his senses and return, but Complus calmly ordered them back to their seats. They stared at him wondering what they should do to retrieve him. He closed his eyes once more and said in his usual, collected fashion,

 

“You will see what fear and faithlessness will do if you let it overcome you.” As he said this, he thumbed in the AWOL Guardsman’s direction. He was waving at them, knee-deep in fog and walking away. Pynius didn’t walk more than four paces when his feet were swept out from under him, burying him in the miasma. The men gawked in horror as their comrade shrieked out his last few breaths. As the men sat down to reflect on the heinous thing they just witnessed, the Inquisitor spoke again. “Which one of you was below that man?” The soldier that had yet to give his name feebly raised his hand. “What is your name, son?”

 

“Dermott, milord. Corporal Pynius is…was my superior.” The old man smiled.

 

“Then congratulations, Dermott, you just made Corporal.” The attempt at humor fell flatly amidst the distraught men. A wind began to flow through the street that came from the direction of the town square. Many of the men gave thanks that the unusual breeze blew away the fog, and much of their fear. When they saw what had made that wind, some of those fears returned. The vortex that had plagued Kralvar for so long seemed so close you could reach out and touch it. None of the men dared risk attempting it, lest they be slain where they sat by the Inquisitor.

 

“Thrones sake, Torvillus, when do you plan on ending this little tour?” Complus had become so agitated that he didn’t even bother relaying this sentence telepathically. Belmarck was equally tired of the backseat driving, and barked out,

 

“Half a click.” Ulrin looked at the Inquisitor strangely. These men, men with almost godlike authority were arguing amongst each other; it didn’t bode well for his own thoughts, which he tried to keep as secret as possible. He quickly pointed himself forwards when the hooded man gave him a sideways glance. The town square finally came into view after a turn. It was writhing with eldritch electricity, and much of the surrounding buildings were pockmarked with scorches from the bolts of blood-tinged lightning that fell every so often. While it was very hard to make out details with the dust in the wind, the point where the cyclone touched down was visible, and a solitary figure could be seen standing in front of the godless sight on a large stone pedestal. Belmarck was going to give word of this discovery when the Chimera began to slow down unintentionally.

 

“What are you doing, Inquisitor?” Ulrin asked.

 

“It’s not me. It’s that heretics’ doing.” Belmarck slammed his foot on the accelerator; it slowly picked up speed. He quickly released his hold on the pedal when a sudden pressure overcame him, like a tank crushing him back into his seat. He could barely move his head enough to see Ulrin grimacing in pain. Fighting what felt like tons of force, he forcedly reached his hand to the drive rod. He clutched the shaft of it, and jerked it back, using the aberrant pressure in his favor. The mechanisms of the machine fought against the immense pressure as well, but finally found its way into reverse. The Chimera bolted backwards faster than it could run forwards. Belmarck fought with the steering wheel to right himself, but the transport only began to spin violently out of control. The men in the rear held on to whatever bare metal they could and yelled in fear of their lives. Nearly a block from where the terror started, it suddenly ended. Belmarck, finally out of the pressure enough to reach the brake, slammed it down, and the treads of the machine stopped. It slid in a lazy circle for nearly a hundred meters, and it grinded against the sides of the red and grey stone of the habs until it finally came to a halt. The men disembarked, dazed and shaken. The Guardsman named Dermott fell over as dizzied as he was. They gathered at the center of the street, and took up a light defensive position. All except for the elder Inquisitor. He instead stood as proudly as a Primarch, and said in a commanding tone,

 

“Stand up, you have nothing to fear here.” The men were justifiably cautious when they slowly got out of their stances. “The cursed Marine has gathered all of his strength for this last ceremony; he can no longer maintain control over his minions. In all likelihood, they have fallen where they stood, and your allies should be breaking through the city unchallenged.” He took on a sly grin. “And frankly, I think they’re all wondering the same things you were.” Belmarck, ever the pragmatist, walked over to Dermott.

 

“Your vid-enhancers…give them to me.” The man offered them up as quickly as he could. Belmarck peered through the lenses. Though one of them was shattered, the other gave him all the information he needed. They were at the Sorcerer’s right, a few hundred meters out. He was putting his hands inside the unholy vortex, and looked to be playing with the shapes and colors of its corporeal appearance. Looking around, he could see dozens of bodies lying around the Sorcerer, all apparently unaffected by the strange force field surrounding the square. Not moments ago, they had all been alive; they had sacrificed themselves to the dark designs of whatever it was the traitor was planning. Though gruesome sights like these were commonplace for a man in his line of work, Torvillus gasped when he saw the chaotically tainted monster leap into the very vortex itself.

 

“Master!” He shouted. Peals of deafening thunder were ringing out all around them. The skies opened themselves, and icy rain began to pour down.

 

“Belmarck?”

 

“Master, the Sorcerer has begun the final part of the ritual, we have maybe five minutes.” The men were terrified by this, whatever it was. They didn’t dare ask what that meant, out of fear that they would find out.

 

“Gentlemen,” Complus said hurriedly, “we have five minutes to stop that heathen from completing that ritual, or else this entire Segmentum will be bathed in a warp storm. Do we have any ideas?” Most of the men were too terrified at the prospect of failure to think. Dermott seemed almost as distraught as Pynius had been, but his fear was replaced with focus when Books nudged him.

 

“Hey…Dermott,” he stuttered. He was losing blood again, and was near fainting. “Remember how those gangers from the Yuulak Gang would always try to leave booby trapped lasguns for the other gangs to find, then detonate them when they got close?” Dermott had no time for such idle reminiscing.

 

“Yeah, but what in the name of Him Enthroned does that have to do with any…” He paused. He cracked a wide smile, then began laughing hysterically, and held his stomach in his hand. Many of the other men would have liked to have been privy to the last good joke of their lives. Marxis piped up as loud as his fading voice could muster,

 

“Everyone! Overcharge your lasgun cells, and toss them in the back of the Chimera, now!” Not having any suggestions of their own, and understanding that in three minutes, it wouldn’t matter if they had a battle Titan at their disposal, they did as they were told. The distinctive high-pitched whine of the overloaded capacitors reassured Marxis, as did the clank of the metal clips striking the floor of the transport. He turned to the cloaked Inquisitor and bowed his head.

 

“You wouldn’t happen to have a remote grenade, would you?” Understanding at once what the trooper was planning, he opened the folds of his robe. Dozens of grenades of varying shape and mark lined his cloak; it had to have weighed a ton in addition to his assault-class carapace armor. Without looking, he reached for a tube-shaped object and handed it to him. He pulled out another, slightly more rounded and larger object and, upon pressing a few indicator runes on the device, tossed it in the back. He held the thing in front of his face, and imitated depressing the top of the device. Belmarck gave the trooper the tube and placed another hand on his.

 

“May the Emperor guide you in what you do.” The man simply smiled and said to him in an unusually casual tone,

 

“I know he does…otherwise I wouldn’t have remembered the idea.” Marxis turned around and unbuckled his helmet. He threw it nonchalantly off to the side, and staggered over to the Chimera. All eyes were on him as he clumsily closed the rear hatch, entered the transport, put the machine into gear and drove away from the scene. Ulrin, just as confused as Complus, asked,

 

“Where might I ask is he going?” He was furious that such an act of cowardice and desertion had gone unpunished by the Inquisitor. With a solemn look, the Inquisitor removed his hood.

 

“Don’t worry, Commissar, he’ll be back.”

 

Barreling down the narrow street as fast as he could make the old machine go, Marxis was headed directly towards the town square. The engine begged the driver not to exert it so much, and sputtered a few times, but Marxis’ iron will forbade it from stopping. Holding down the accelerator wasn’t Marxis’ feet, it was his fathers’ naval-issue laspistol, wedged against some of the floor and the accelerator. He had decided that if this abomination wanted his legacy, he was going to get it in spades. Using his good hand to guide the transport, he raced down towards the center. Even though his vision was blurring, he could see the Sorcerer levitating in mid-air, as if the Emperor-given laws of physics were tawdry playthings. All of the death and horror that had plagued Kralvar was going to end now, that much was certain in his mind, he just didn’t know how. The whisper in the air was transforming into a pleading moan that begged him not to go on. He ignored every word, and dashed to the vortex. Marxis saw the Inquisitors, Commissar Ulrin, and Dermott to his left. Some waved what many believed to be a final farewell, while others simply stared at him.

 

The pressure began to make itself known not a moment after passing the men. It was only a slight weight on his chest at first, like that of a small animal resting on you. Soon, that animal became rather large, and covered his whole body. He could barely keep the Chimera steady, but he had to. Shots of lightning stabbed at him from the cruel sky, but he swerved left and right to avoid them. The weight of the transport was noticeably reduced without the other occupants, but the force field was still taking its toll on the Chimera’s speed. The arcane gauges seemed to be showing that it was going slower, but he didn’t need a century of working in the scholums of the Mechanicum to know that. He was no more than a hundred meters away now, and the pressure was immense. Marxis was sinking into the seat so far, he thought he might go through it. Eighty, Sixty, Forty, he waited until the last possible moment before wresting himself out from the seat. The power of the force field hurled him back, and he skidded along the rockcrete ground. He smacked into a sacrificial corpse that was somehow now under the control of the unnatural energies around it. It flew away with Marxis, as he thudded against a wall. The pressure splayed him vertically across it, and the corpse he hit bounced off a corner of the building, flying in a loping arc into a window. He could see the Chimera’s treads fighting for all they were worth to get those last few inches towards the pedestal, but knew they wouldn’t hold out for long.

 

He tried pressing the button, but couldn’t get his thumb to fight the pressure enough to depress the trigger. As he struggled to press the trigger, he watched in horror as those same red bolts that summoned that Warp-spawn now struck the Sorcerer. He seemed to convulse as a tangible darkness emanated from his midsection; it poured out of him like liquid black. Inky, blasphemous tentacles writhed out from the Sorcerer’s chest, and began to expand, killing the light, and spreading an evil obscurity. Knowing that he couldn’t muster the strength to press the trigger, he instead shot his elbow up, forcing his wrist around so that the trigger was facing the wall he was being held against. Letting the Sorcerer’s own evil magics do him in, he relaxed his arm. As the pressure forced the detonator onto the wall, Marxis could only remember hearing the loudest noise he’d every heard, and felt the wall crumbling around him.

 

The next thing Marxis could remember, he was on an Imperial Medicae Frigate.

 

The Sermon was a glorious thing to behold. A pin in the shape of the Aquila that doubled as a vox-caster blared out the stirring words of the Ecclesiarch. Men as tall and brutish as Ogryns were felled by his accusing eyes. He kept the mass enthralled with his depictions of what the next world was like after a glorious death in service to the Emperor, and urged them on to destroying heresy wherever it appeared. Marxis warned of the terrible fates that awaited the unfaithful in this world, and the next, and pointed out the sins of the people for all to see with his augmetic hand. The sheer fervor and passion with which he spoke His divine blessings moved even Torvillus, who found himself singing a Hymn of the Redeeming Flame with the hundreds crammed into the spacious temple. With the firing of a ceremonial cannon, the Sermon ended.

 

As the congregants left the Temple, Belmarck was the last in line to leave. As the man in front of him exited into the lightly foggy streets, the Inquisitor stopped, and slunk back into the holy site. With a nod of the head from the ceremonial guard, the immense mechanisms that closed the heavily ornamented marble doors came to life, and the sound of grinding stone permeated the stillness of the night, like a tolling bell that took more than its share of time. Torvillus removed his hood and entered the door that led to Marxis’ quarters. When he got there, he was disappointed to see Marxis sitting on his bed, bottle of Amasec in hand; it was three quarters of the way drained, and the old priest looked about the same. He let the bottle drop with a clink on the floor, and it rolled in Belmarck’s direction. He stopped it with the tip of his boot, and kicked it away as the intoxicating fluids dripped on the stone of the floor.

 

“In all of my years of hiding that thing,” he said in a garbled mix of slurs and sobs, “I never thought I would have to lay eyes upon it again. I had hoped that this day would come; that you would arrive and purge that abomination forever, but I didn’t want to be there when you did.” The Inquisitor stood silently. It wasn’t his fault this was happening, but the drunken guilt the Ecclesiarch pressed upon him made him feel as if it was. Slowly, the old man rose shakily, and walked with a stagger over to one of the far walls of the subterranean room, and stood, studying a portrait of the Emperor’s Conquest of the Salognar Moons. In it, a massive figure in golden power armor stood pointing at a Naval Review. Hundreds of the finest battleships in the Imperial Navy were aligned in uniform rows that stretched as far as the eye could see and further. Being as the figures face was concealed by a massive halo of light, he assumed the figure was the Emperor. Feeling obligated to say something, Belmarck spoke up.

 

“It is a rather lovely painting, Marxis.” The inebriated priest scoffed.

 

“Nonsense! It’s trash…I’ve seen better looking pieces of art on the back of a twists underwear. I could draw the Emperor better than that with my eyes closed!” Upon saying this, he reached back with his augmetic fist and, upon steadying himself a bit, lunged a throw at the Review. Belmarck was shocked that the Cardinal would defile holy artwork in such a way, but was even more surprised when his metallic fist went straight through the canvas. Turning his head lazily, the old man laughed.

 

“Thought I was really doing something I should burn for, didn’t you? No, I wouldn’t waste my time on that kind of filth. What I have in here is the real surprise.” Belmarck was still at a loss for words. The sound of motors hissing made the Inquisitor tense up, and he darted his eyes back and forth as clanking metal ushered the movement of one side of the entire wall. The space that opened up was only about the size of a closet, but it held so much more than things like garments. On a basalt pedestal, shrouded by a stasis field, was a small book that looked as ravaged by age as if the field had never worked. Upon seeing the object, the man seemed to sober up in an instant, as if the previous moments were little more than an act.

 

“Do you know what this is, my old friend?” he said with that same, grandfatherly tone.

 

“No, I can’t say that I do.” The priest beamed with pride.

 

“In that field is one of the original Lectio Divinitatus. These texts were printed at a time before His ascension, and I have one. That book there is the reason I live like such a comparative pauper to my peers. I have treasured that holy work for decades, and have shown…come to think of it, you are the only person besides the man I purchased it from and me who has seen this.” He chuckled a bit at the thought. Torvillus had already taken to giving his respects to the work, and looked up when he was finished.

 

“Why are you showing me this, my friend?”

 

“I’m an old man, Belmarck. The curtain of my life is drawing to a close, and I have a feeling that this experience will be the final tug on the chord. If I don’t survive this, I ask that you find a place to keep this safe…it is too precious to the Imperium to let it simply be forgotten.” Ending his words near tears, Marxis left to his dressing area where he donned his black ferraiolo and deftly snuck a number of prayer booklets and charms into his pockets.

 

“You’re not going to take this?” the Inquisitor said, clutching a rosarius that dangled on a metal chord. Marxis looked away, ashamed of looking at the holy shield generator. He reached over, grabbed the device, and stared at it philosophically.

 

“The Emperor does not smile on secrets. It shames the soul and muddles the mind. I must say that my mind is rather muddled, Belmarck.” Suddenly, the man began to smile weakly, and placed the rosarius on a small table that held a glass with a layer of Amasec still lying on the bottom. “But with this task, I believe my spirit will once again feel pride. I need no shield of this world; the Emperor protects.” The Inquisitor could feel the glow return to Ecclesiarch. He opened the door and left it ajar.

 

“I’ll be outside.”

 

The night was an icy pall over the air outside of the Temple. A ship or two darted overhead to some destination off-world, and he wished he could join them. He’d give anything barring his soul to avoid this task, but His will be done, as his tutors often said. Before he had a chance to contemplate whether or not his tutors might have been mistaken, the priest cracked open the door. Marxis looked better off than he was in his chambers, but he was still a mess; he’d begun shaking in that near-imperceptible way that old people do. Truth be told, the only thing that wasn’t jittering was the cold, metallic implant.

 

“How are we getting there?” the Inquisitor asked.

 

“I’ve made arrangements.” This made the other mans’ brow furrow. It wasn’t that he questioned his friend’s loyalty, he thought that perhaps in a drunken mistake he’d spoken to the wrong people. Seeing the reservation in his eyes, Marxis bowed his head. “Don’t worry, my driver’s a very trustworthy fellow.” As he said this, a speeder that bore the mark of the Ecclesiarchy swooped in from the south. All of its lights were out; either it was in a bad state of repair, or it was running on stealth mode, Belmarck believed it was the latter. A hiss of pneumatics preceded the slow opening of the cockpit, and the men got into the back of the craft. Pulling the length of his robe into the vehicle, the door opened and a dull red glow filled the inner area. It wasn’t the most luxurious ship he’d ever been in, but it wasn’t the worst. As the anti-gravity devices in the ship activated, the craft took off with a sharp jerk, and the Inquisitor knocked his head on the metallic roof.

 

“Look here, if you try that kind of move again, I can promise you that…” Belmarck was suddenly staring into the unflinching gaze of a servitor’s dull metallic eye. He felt good about that in one way… the driver was definitely trustworthy.

 

It only took ten minutes to reach the site as Complus had warned that keeping the prisoner too far away would give him too much time to get away, should he ever escape. There were no markings on the small door built into a small hill. It wasn’t clear if the hill was natural or manmade, but it was inconspicuous, and that’s what counted. The lair was built during the Age of Apostasy to hold combat-capable Psykers, and as such was kept as hidden as possible, less to keep away ‘thieves’, but more to protect innocent people who might be affected by the twisted will of the mutants. The door of the lair itself was wholly bare, no markings, no insignias, not even a ward against daemonic taint; all it had was a small card reader on its right side. Not wishing to waste any time with questions, Belmarck tugged the key card from that lanyard around his neck, and swiped the nondescript metal wafer through the slot. A barely audible beep sounded from somewhere behind the wall, and the two men stood back. In moments, a rumble began to be felt as some kind of machinery dropped the door into the soil. The distinct scent of stale air poured out from the pitch black opening, and the old man wheezed as dust filled his lungs. Glow-globes, probably older than either man, flickered and buzzed into life. A small rack bearing the mark of the Mechanicus held a few glow-rods which they took into the “prison”. Another door, this time far larger blocked their path. It was built in the same manner as the other door, but had one word inscribed on it: “Infurtys”. Belmarck remembered that the word was the name of an artisan who managed to kill three Khornate cultists who had broken into his studio in the night using a sharpened paintbrush. One small man against near impossible odds and winning, that was what Fonidere liked to see.

 

This door was apparently designed not to keep intruders out, but to keep its occupants in, and Belmarck saw it. It needed two keys to open, but the Inquisitor wouldn’t need to guess where it was. On the door to right, like its predecessor, a small, rectangular card reader was placed on the right, and a small hole, no bigger than a man’s fist was located on the left. Torvillus remembered the event with the Naval Review, and took his place at the gargantuan door. The Cardinal held his augmetic hand horizontally in front of the hole, and Belmarck held the card at the beginning of the reader. Counting to three, the men performed their parts. As soon as the card was swept and the iron hand inserted, the door that bore the mark of Infurtys split in two. The grating lull of metal on rockcrete filled air that probably hadn’t heard a noise in decades. As the doors reached their final destination, the men jumped back as the entrance slammed shut. A countermeasure against escape, Belmarck thought. There were no glow-globes in this darkened place, so they had to rely on their small torches. They cast dim beams of light through the corridor, but found that the stasis and force fields that made up the cells of the complex gave off an eerie blue glow that enveloped the floor and walls.

 

It was a museum of nightmares, Marxis thought. Books bound in flesh lined the cells, and bodies that were horrendously mutated were splayed on tables in others. Small, seemingly insignificant trinkets occupied some rooms, while others held things as large as the sides of tanks that had been salvaged from some war long since passed. That’s when he began to notice something: each piece of equipment in the preserved cells bore a mark stating what conflict they were involved in. He expected a myriad number of worlds to be represented by these blasphemous artefacts, but was horrified to learn that they all bore one name: Kralvar. Everything in this twisted exhibition was rooted in his past. Memories, cruel and tainted, began to return to him. Once again, he could smell the fresh blood in the air, and heard the cries of his dying comrades echoing throughout the chamber. He closed his eyes and began muttering a simple prayer.

 

At the end of the corridor were two final cells, each one seemingly unshielded. They feared whatever was in there had broken free, and they pointed their shafts of light onto the cell on the right. They were amazed to see a staff of some blue stone, crooked and malformed, hovering as if weightless. As they pointed the beams around, they could see hundreds of runes and wards adorning the walls of the chamber, each one meticulously carved into the stone itself. Undoubtedly, whatever had possessed this staff was unholy, and required extremely thorough protection. Realizing they had all but forgotten the other cell, they spun on their heels. They couldn’t tell what they saw next.

 

It was roughly humanoid, with massively armored limbs extruding from a barrel-like midsection, and claws that scraped the ground. Its face wasn’t human, nor was it masked behind a helmet. The thing was a daemon made flesh, with vicious horns that shot out from its face. It roared with the aid of a hundred screams packed into one, and the glow-sticks burned out. Belmarck raised his laspistol and aimed in the now hidden creature’s direction; the round smacked cleanly against the force field guarding the cell, and sparks shot out at the point of impact. The orange glow cast by the electricity illuminated the sacrilegious beings face for a split second, and then dissipated. As the old man began shouting prayers from one of the booklets he brought to silence his own terrified mind, an unnaturally low laugh ebbed out from the cell.

 

“What do you want?” whispered a voice. It echoed as if other people were mimicking it. It was dry, and gravelly, as if the vocal chords that had uttered the words were caked with ages of dust. The Inquisitor holstered the laspistol and collected himself.

 

“We want answers.” In a childlike tone, the whisper replied,

 

“From who?”

 

“From you, Sorcerer!” he snapped.

 

“What is its name?” Belmarck had no time for these games.

 

“You will speak with us, Idolater…now.” The voice seemed to fear the word.

 

“I will find him, he will come.” It echoed sheepishly.

 

“You will or you both will die.” A few moments later, Torvillus noticed that the blue tint of the force field began to reemerge, as if the shadows themselves were dissipating. Slowly, like the shade of a tree moving from one side of the sun to the other, the shadow crept back into the cell. Eventually, it began to slide up a large stone chair. It stopped in a number of places that began to make the shape of a person in large, cumbersome armor. The shadows stopped their retreat at the chest of the figure, but two new blue lights began to glow about where the head of the large figure should have been; they were as bright as the glow of the shield, but they illuminated nothing else, as if they weren’t there. A new voice now came from the cell,

 

“You speak of death as if it were a bad thing.” It was a commanding and eloquent sound that seemed to reverberate in their minds. Marxis was so gripped by the fear his memories caused that he grasped an icon of the Golden Throne in his pocket and squeezed it so hard, his hand bled. He shuffled a step back, and bit his lip to keep his inward fear from becoming outward. Belmarck saw the sight and took pity; if he were any other Inquisitor, the old man would have been executed on sight for cowardice, but he knew what that monster had done to him, so he let it slip. At that moment, the glow-rods began to function again, and one of the beams haphazardly landed on the wall of the cell. They looked at the hexagrammic carvings that dotted the blackened stone and seemed satisfied that they were safe from the Sorcerer’s vile machinations. Torvillus tried to focus the beam on the shadowed figure, but the light simply died off as it got closer. Unsatisfied about being unable to see his prisoner, Belmarck said,

 

“If you want, I’ll show you death.” The figure only let out a gurgling laugh.

 

“Now, now, Inquisitor, if you were that eager to kill me, you wouldn’t have bothered coming down here. No, I think you need something of mine, and you’re here to get it, am I right?” He wouldn’t say a word that would agree with the heretic. “I thought as much. Now, tell me, what’s on your so-called mind, Inquisitor?”

 

“You have knowledge regarding the Despoiler. Out with it.” Belmarck motioned to his comrade who began chanting the Litany of Retracted Faith, though he wouldn’t dare to raise his head from the sheet of High Gothic. The eyes seemed to shift, as if deducing the old priest’s reaction.

 

“Do I frighten you, priest?” the Idolater said with no small amount of enjoyment. Belmarck pointed to the stone partition between the Sorcerer’s cell and another, and Marxis moved out of its view. Belmarck saw the glowing blue eyes seem to follow the man, even behind the stone. “Fear is but a sign of faithlessness,” he called out, impersonating Marxis’ voice perfectly. Belmarck saw his friend shudder, and became enraged.

 

“Leave him alone! As of now, your business is with me.” Without lifting a page or raising his data slate, the Inquisitor began speaking in a bizarre language that the old man couldn’t understand. Whatever dialect it was, it caused the hexagrammic runes of the cell to glow a dull red, and a bestial groan emanated from the chamber. After a minute or two, Belmarck finished his incantation, and the light began to fade from the stone. The groan soon gave way to a slow, doglike pant. The Sorcerer’s voice came again from the cell; first as a voice possessed, slowly returning to the dulcet venom of before.

 

“You Inquisitor’s amaze me with your hypocrisy. You claim to work against the dark gods, yet you invoke their own vast powers to do so.” As the voice returned to normal, it said with a gruesome chuckle, “So be it…what knowledge would you like to send to Segmentum Command, knowing you learned it from someone like me?” For the first time in this hellish dungeon, Belmarck smiled.

 

“Oh, I think you’ll tell the truth.”

 

“Really?” he said with poorly masked incredulousness.

 

“Absolutely…you wouldn’t want me to do that again, would you?” he asked while pointing to the runes on the wall. The eyes followed across the four corners of the cell as if for the first time.

 

“Very well, where do we begin?”

 

“What is the Despoiler’s plan for his next Black Crusade?”

 

“His plan is to win.” Not phased by the attempt at humor, Belmarck began reciting the chant once more, and the Sorcerer shouted out louder than the Inquisitor’s cants, “He will win by using his newest ships!” The room went silent.

 

“We’re making progress, good.” Torvillus said. “Now, what kind of ship?”

 

“It is a daemon-ship. I forget its name but he is truly a grand sight to behold. I could show him to you if you’d like, just turn off that field.” The Inquisitor remained as unflinching as the rock around him. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

 

“I think I can make an exception in your case. Now, how large is this ship?” The Idolater didn’t respond; instead, he stood up from his chair and began to pace. His feet, which had to be clad in heavy ceramite as Belmarck could see, made no sound. The Sorcerer moved around the roughly square room in a circle, with its hands behind its back. As it moved behind its chair for about the third time, it stopped. Torvillus began to lose his patience. “Heretic?” he called out. The Sorcerer’s head slowly pivoted in his direction and stared at him with those unholy azure eyes. They looked like blue embers now, and the Inquisitor thought he could see a lash of flame rise up from the roughly triangular sockets. Suddenly, the Idolater shoved over his immense stone chair like a rag doll; it crashed against the wall and broke into a number of oddly shaped boulders. Marxis, who had previously tried to block out the sound of the Sorcerer’s voice, was flung forward by his own terrified reflex action. A number of pages of scripture flew from his pockets, and he scrambled to pick them up.

 

The Sorcerer, now finished with his former seating arrangement, darted to the edge of the shield. He pointed a sharpened, gauntleted finger at the Inquisitor so close to the barrier that a small spark shot from the tip every now and then. The formerly melodic voice now gave way to a cruel, incomparably furious yell,

 

“You will not dare to question my faith! I have more faith in the God of Sorcery than you will ever have in a lifetime of piety to your false corpse-Emperor!” Feeling stung by this question of his belief in the God-Emperor of Mankind, he began reciting the words that made the runes glow. The Sorcerer’s hand lowered in pain, and the fire in his eyes began to dim. He continued his chant far longer than before, and the runes began to sizzle and smoke. The Idolater was brought down onto his knees, and clutched his hands over his head to block out what must have been excruciating pain. The tainted Marine barked out profanities in alien tongues laced with cries of agony Taking great relish in this, Belmarck stopped. In a sing-song tone, the Inquisitor called out,

 

“Idolater?” He repeated the call. The small, meek voice that he first heard piped up.

 

“He doesn’t wish to speak with you now, he will return.” Torvillus, with his usual pragmatism, sought to take advantage of this lull. He stepped away from the cell and took Marxis by the shoulder. They walked away from the cowed Sorcerer, and leaned against the massive side of the door that bore the name of the noble painter. The priest was wiping his eyes with the folds of his clothes and flipping through prayers that at this point brought him little comfort outside of his soul.

 

“How are you, old friend?” The priest looked up at him with eyes so piteous, it nearly made Belmarck think he was a different man from the fearless bastion of faith he had seen in the temple. Realizing what he had sunk to, the Cardinal broke into tears. It was the first time Torvillus had ever seen a member of the Ecclesiarchy shed a tear anywhere outside of a heartfelt prayer. He wouldn’t press the man for an answer. “Listen, if you need to leave, I would be hard-pressed to blame you.” The look on the old priests face went from fear and pity to abject rage. His formerly hunched stance was replaced with an iron-stiff rigidness, and his hands clenched into fists.

 

“I can’t leave! I’m not doing this for your sake, or for anyone on this Emperor-forsaken planet anymore…I’m doing this for the sake of the Imperium, and for my soul. Fear overtook me when faith should have, and now I am a damned man until I can redeem myself, don’t you get it?” Belmarck was surprised by the sudden out burst of anger from the normally mild-mannered priest, but understood that the stress he was under at this point was testing him a great deal mentally. The Inquisitor felt that a large pang of guilt in seeing his friend being torn apart by his thoughts as he was. After all, he was partly to blame for all of this.

 

In the devastation of the Sector 24, Complus could feel the taint of Chaos draining from the city. The sound of Imperial war machines were coming closer, and he saw a wing of Marauder Destroyers fly past. Most of the men were awakening from their temporary unconsciousness; the blast had sent many of them on their backs, and he could feel a slight cut on his head that he received knocking onto a tread of the Chimera. As soon as they were all awake again, one thought entered their minds: O'Reilly. They began moving away chunks of stone and rockcrete, finding hunks of flesh that they prayed wasn’t from their comrade. When they started thinking that looking for him any longer was a lost cause, Ulrin shouted out,

 

“Emperor’s mercy! I’ve found him!” As the survivors of the hellish experience rushed towards the Commissar, he stated that the man was alive, although worse for wear. He was buried underneath a large slab of a brick wall that the man removed with a great deal of effort. The now hoodless younger Inquisitor snatched a vox-transmitter from the folds of his cloak and ordered a transport be sent to their position. The man answering the message said that it was suicide to send ships to that location, but the Inquisitor assured him that the only casualty would be him if he didn’t send a Valkyrie. The young trooper was unconscious, and his wound had reopened, but he was assuredly alive.

 

“Master?”

 

“Yes, Torvillus?”

 

“This man shows great promise…I request that after he heal from this, he be transferred to the Ecclesiarchy Scholarum.” His mentor simply pulled a small necklace with a pendant that bore the image of the Golden Throne in his good hand. “Thank you, master, I’m sure he will become a great man of faith.” Fonidere was about to agree, when another shout, this time from Guardsman named Dermott came about three hundred yards away. It was both a notification, and a scream. They rushed towards the soldier, weapons ready. The Sorcerer’s grip over his minions was broken, but they still posed a threat. However, what they found was far worse than any mutant attacker. As they passed the cowering Guardsman, the Inquisitors saw the Idolater, splayed on the rockcrete, still clutching a crooked stone stick. His armor was still completely intact, as if he’d never suffered a single hit in the cataclysmic blast. Complus was the first to make a move; he kicked the blue staff away with his foot as his pupil kept a good aim with his Hellgun.

 

“It is dead, right?” Ulrin asked. Belmarck was planning on keeping his bead on the heretic’s head, no matter which answer his master gave. Ulrin winced when he heard the graying Inquisitor state,

 

“It is still alive. Torvillus, call down the Thunderhawk.” Obeying without question, he began to type onto the now partially broken data-slate. The Commissar gave the two men a sideways glance.

 

“If I remember correctly, you already called for a transport to get that boy out of here.”

 

“This transport isn’t for him, it’s for us.” Belmarck stated bluntly. Feeling reassured, the Commissar sat down on a pile of rubble and pulled a stick of some chemo-plant. Striking a match, he began to inhale the smoke deep into his lungs. He welcomed the sight of a Thunderhawk with the markings of the Inquisition swoop down from orbit a few minutes later. As he puffed away, he could see the dark-haired Inquisitor, still aiming his Hellgun and not appearing to blink. He couldn’t fathom being in the line of work those men were, being around such mind-warping daemons day after day. The Thunderhawk landed with a squeal of retro-thrusters and the hiss of the landing gear. He wasn’t surprised to see two large lifter-servitors open the doors to the craft, but was surprised when they began lumbering towards their masters with a large metal pallet.

 

“I thought you said that the boy was leaving by Valkyrie.” Not moving a muscle, Belmarck replied,

 

“He is. As I said, it’s not for him…it’s for us.” Putting two and two together, the Commissar threw down the smoldering stick and walked towards the scene. To his dread, the servitors began to lift the massive form of the Chaos Marine and laid it on the slab. With the press of a few buttons on the Inquisitor’s wrist, a stasis field formed around the gruesome traitor’s body, and the automatons began to carry him back to the ship.

 

“What is the meaning of this, Inquisitor?” His voice was sharp and condemning.

 

“He leaves with us; there is much knowledge we could extract about the Great Enemy from this heretic.” Complus answered casually.

 

“I wasn’t aware that member of the Inquisition had much of a sense of humor, but I must say, it isn’t very good. That daemon dies here.” Not listening to the Commissar, the servitors began to lug the bulk of the Marine onto the transport, with Belmarck maintaining close watch inside the ship. Ulrin was irate, and he climbed onto the side of the transport. Torvillus assured him as calmly as he could,

 

“Have the Inquisitions assurances that we will keep him under the closest of scrutiny.”

 

“You shall do no such thing!” Unsurprisingly to the guarded Inquisitor, the man pulled his laspistol. Belmarck wasn’t about to raise his own gun, lest he move it away from the Sorcerer.

“I wouldn’t be so stupid as to shoot an Inquisitor; however, I cannot allow you to take him off this planet alive.” He aimed the weapon at the Sorcerer’s masked head. “In the name of the God-Emperor of Man, I…” the las-round pierced his skull and spanged against the plasteel siding of the Thunderhawk. His eyes, locked in astonishment, went from the Sorcerer, to the Inquisitor, to the floor as his body fell from the Thunderhawk and landed on the floor with a dull crack as his neck cracked, eliminating any chance he survived. Belmarck looked up and saw Complus standing, laspistol held in outstretched hand. Moving unnaturally quickly for a man of his appearance, he climbed into the Thunderhawk and sat behind one of the servitors; it was stained with the Commissar’s blood.

 

“I never really liked that guy.” At this point, Complus was drained of his usual good humor.

 

“Thanatchek,” he said, calling on the flight servitor, “get us off this rock and onto the cruiser.” As the craft lifted from the ground, they saw a Valkyrie pass by and land near where they did.

 

The medicae team found the man the person on the vox-unit had told them about. One of the men carried a number of medical apparatus over to the injured soldier.

 

“What’s his condition, Breers?”

 

“He’s unconscious. Oh, throne…” he saw the man’s hand, blood slowly dripping out. “Get him on the ship, now!”

 

“What about those two?”

 

“They’ll find their graves soon enough, let’s go.” As the Valkyrie took off, one man heavier, the wind swept through the town center, blowing the hat off of the body of Commissar Ulrin. It landed right in Dermott’s lap, next to the lasgun he used to blow his brains out.

 

The prison door felt icy cold, but compared to the chill the Sorcerer let off, Marxis compared it to his bed back in Polmeryn Town. Belmarck straightened himself from his previously relaxed position, and waved for him to get up as well. He thought about the words Marxis spoke about redemption, and decided to let him have the decision on how to proceed.

 

“How would you like to go about doing this?” The Cardinal thought for a bit.

 

“I think we should begin by…” he was cut short by a shot of sparks from the Idolater’s cell. From the depths of the complex they could hear him speak.

 

“While I do love your company, I do hate waiting.” Marxis snarled.

 

“Then we shall not keep you, daemon!” Before Torvillus could object, the priest had already bolted for the Sorcerer’s prison. He had thrown down many of the lesser trinkets he held, but kept the icon of the Throne. He shoved the golden pendant so far in the Sorcerer’s direction, that a shot of electricity went through his good arm, nearly numbing it. “Look! Look upon what is to come in your future. You claim to be able to see into the future with your blasphemous parlor tricks, but I will tell you the future here and now: all of your kind will feel the Emperor’s wrath in the end, and you will taste his justice the most, I swear it. I’ve beaten you once before, conjurer, and I will beat you again.”

 

The Sorcerer’s eyes widened a bit. He was surprised to see such a small man speak so bravely to a person of his stature, let alone his power. The deluded little creature would meet his glorious Emperor in time, of that much he was certain. His friend would as well, but he began to think of devious ways in which to make the arrogant worm pay for insulting him so callously.

 

By the time Belmarck reached the cell, Marxis was already nursing his still lifeless arm.

 

“As to what I was saying, Idolater, how are you able to see this amazing daemon-ship? Those runes my master and I placed prevent you from using any of your greater abilities, so how did you do it?” The Sorcerer didn’t speak, instead he bent down and grasped a stone from his obliterated chair. As he laid it on his outstretched palm, it began to levitate.

 

“I have the ability to do a number of things, Inquisitor.” As he said this, the other bits and pieces of the destroyed rock began to hover as well. They soon began to spin, some faster than the other, each one holding a different orbit around him. The sound of rocks hitting against rocks filled the chamber, and the Inquisitor’s ears began to ring.

 

“You have proven your point, Sorcerer, now stop it!” Not requiring the usual mystic prodding, the stones stopped instantaneously, and fell to the floor with a large cloud of dust that flickered against the energy shield.

 

“There’s always something I wondered about you Inquisitors,” Belmarck remained silent; that was the closest he would ever come to granting him anything, “why is it that you people call people like me insane? Of all my vast fonts of knowledge, the answer to that question has eluded me the most.” With matter-of-factness in his tone, Belmarck simply responded,

 

“You consort with daemons.” The Idolater’s arms, previously folded, now fell limply to his sides as if in disbelief. He quickly readjusted himself.

 

“Daemons to some…angels unto others.”

 

“You worship dark gods that seek the death and ruin of humanity.”

 

“So you’re saying that our so-called madness is based on our beliefs?”

 

“As it has always been and always shall be. The Emperor is the one true light in this universe.” This statement made the Sorcerer laugh. Not the ineffectual tittering of before, but a great and thunderous cackle that bathed Infurtys Complex in wretched sound.

 

“What might I ask is so funny, traitor?”

 

“I just found the irony amusing is all.”

 

“Being?”

 

“Being that you call me a madman for my beliefs when you people worship a rotten corpse on a chair,” he broke out in a fit of laughter again, but collected himself, “I think it’s hysterical.”

 

“I think I’ve had enough of this.” With that, he began reciting the arcane words again, and the runes began to glow. The laugher, however, did not cease. In fact it only grew louder as Torvillus gasped at what he saw next. More than half of the runes on every side of the wall were gone, scratched away as if some beast had had its way with it for hours. He couldn’t imagine what had done it, when suddenly, it came to him.

 

When the Sorcerer was displaying his abilities inside his cell, he made so much of a racket when he was moving the stones, that he failed to realize that what was actually making the noise was the pieces of the chair scraping away the runes and wards set into the walls. Deep gouges were scored into the now defiled rock, and what few runes were left intact seemed to have no effect, even as Belmarck shouted them louder than the Idolater laughed. The Sorcerer began to run his fingers across the shield, and the shower of sparks in the dim room was nearly blinding.

 

“Marxis! We have to get out of…” He could see Marxis behind him. He was holding his pendant in his metal hand, and the blue staff in another. His look was a complete blank, although there was something about his eyes. When he met the man all those years ago, they were a color like that of grass, but now they were a bright turquoise, as if they had an added shade of blue. He could hear the pistons in his augmetic hand tense up, and he grabbed for it just as it neared his throat. He forced the Inquisitor against the partition and pinned him there. For a man near eighty, his strength was inhuman and he had to use both hands to prevent being strangled. He heard the whirring sound as the motors within the priests hand kept a vice-like chokehold upon him

 

“Emperor’s sake, Marxis! What in the name of Terra are you doing?” He received an answer in Marxis’ voice, only it wasn’t Marxis who said it. The voice behind him uttered out,

 

“Remember, Belmarck, I am a damned man. I will rot in the stinking ground until the worms have had their fill for my heresies…and so shall you.” As the Sorcerer said this, Marxis raised his other arm holding the Sorcerer’s staff and was preparing to smash his head in. In the din of the force fields, a glint of light caught Torvillus’ eye. The pendant that Complus had given him was dangling on one of his fingers. He snatched at it, and broke the chain off the possessed prelate. As the staff came back for the swing, he dropped the pendant into his artificial hand. The pendant caught on something, as the motors began to slow and stutter. The scent of overworked machine parts entered his nose, and he shut his eyes as the circuitry overloaded. What used to be Marxis O’Reilly shrieked out in pain, and released his grip on the Inquisitor. Taking in a deep breath, Belmarck grabbed Marxis by the arm and, by twisting a few parts on the mechanized wrist, pulled the augmetic right out of its socket.

 

“Forgive me, old friend.” Torvillus kicked the man squarely in the stomach, sending him back into one of the force fields which sent a stream of numbing electricity through him, and knocked him out.

 

The Sorcerer had had his amusement watching the mewling cretins fight, but now had more pressing matters to attend to. He raised his hand, and the staff began to float towards him. No force field could match the sheer power of Chaos, the Idolater thought, and the staff began to pulsate with ruinous energies. It went from a light blue color to a malicious purple. After a few minutes a hole large enough for the staff to come through formed in the field. As soon as it entered the Sorcerer’s cell, it closed.

 

In that time, Belmarck had managed to drag his unconscious friend to the other side of the prison, and had shoved what used to be the Cardinal’s hand into the keyhole. He reached the middle of the door, when a massive explosion tore through the rear of the prison. He looked up and saw the Idolater, floating in midair, staff in hand. He was awash with unholy blue fire that showed him for what he was: Chaos, pure and simple. There was no elegance with this thing of evil, no grace, no civility, simply evil. As he waved his hand, one by one, the stasis and force fields across the compound deactivated, and Belmarck heard cries and howls he hadn’t heard since that Emperor-forsaken day on Kralvar. Hideous creatures slowly emerged from the cells, dazed and confused. They were in a strange room on a strange planet, but one thing was clear to them: they had to kill. With the guidance of the Sorcerer, they began to shamble towards Belmarck. He dashed over to the right of the door and slid his card key.

 

Much to his thanks, the doors began to shut. Seeing that they might be trapped in this room forever, they quickened their pace. As the Inquisitor scooped up his friend, he also pulled out his laspistol and began firing at whatever got too close to the slowly shutting door. The exit was still shut as long as the other door was still open, so Torvillus spent his time blasting at both mutant and Sorcerer alike. Though the rounds made quick work of the abominable denizens of Kralvar, the rounds merely bounced off of some kind of shield the Sorcerer had. That’s when he realized something. Once he was out, then what? He couldn’t ask the Astartes, for they would kill both the Sorcerer and his friend and him. He also couldn’t call on the Inquisition because by the time they arrived, the Idolater would have already escaped, and Emperor only knew what kind of damage he would reap on this world.

His thoughts were shifted as the door with Infurtys’ name shut, and the exit door opened. Belmarck breathed a sigh of relief that quickly gave way to a gasp as the center of the door began to glow a bright orange and began to spark in a small hole the Sorcerer must have been making. That’s when it hit him. He rushed over to the entrance of the dungeon and grabbed one of the last remaining glow-rods. He broke the thing in half and tore out its power cell and some wires. Yanking off his Inquisitorial Rosette, he quickly opened the face of the shield generator, and twisted a number of wires together, bonding the power cell and the device. Letting his creation go, he grabbed his friend and dragged him out of the prison. He reached out with his key card and stood only long enough to see the Idolater float slowly through the now completely melted door along with his band of mutants. Swiping the card and shutting the door to the exit, Belmarck shoved his still passed out friend into the back of the Ecclesiarchal Speeder, and tossed the pilot servitor out. Stepping on the accelerator as hard as his foot could, the ship took flight and accelerated so fast it nearly broke the Inquisitors neck.

 

Back in the cell, the Idolater laughed at the redundancy of the fools. They thought that two small doors could defeat what would soon be the greatest power in the galaxy? He laughed richly at the thought. Hovering next to the door, he held out his staff and began to recite the dark words the God of Change had taught him. After a little, one of the mutants began to tug on his armor. He spun around and bludgeoned the freak with a flick of the wrist. As he saw the mutant fall, he could see what he wanted to show him: a small necklace, about the size of a palm, attached to a power core. Realizing what the mutant had found, he recoiled.

 

“NOOO!”

 

Priority level: Magenta Gamma

Transmitted: Polmeryn Town, Plains World

To: Inquisitorial Battleship Eleison

Date: 3883520.M41

Transmitter: Astropath Prime Berethi

Receiver: Astropath-terminus Golumera

Author: Inquisitor Torvillus Belmarck

Thought for the Day: The Emperor Is Watching

Lord Inquisitor Complus,

The mission has indeed been successful. I have news from Segmentum Command that the Daemon-ship ‘Blights Righteousness’ was discovered somewhere to the galactic east of the Gothic sector. Reports are coming in that the Imperial Navy caught the defenders off guard; it should be destroyed within the week. Our mutual friend Marxis is recovering from his wounds, although I don’t think he’ll answer our calls for favors anymore, I’m afraid. The prisoner has been dealt with; I overloaded the shield generator on one of my personal items to create an explosion. Recovery teams sent in could only find a large piece of the Idolater’s staff, but I‘m sure the rest of it will be found. The ship that’s carrying that item seems to have gone missing, however. What does disturb me is that while parts of other “items” in the compound were recovered, the Idolater’s corpse has yet to be found, although we did find his helmet...it was grinning.

 

 

 

Inquisitor Torvillus Belmarck, Ordo Malleus,

His Imperial Majesty’s Inquisition

 

[Message ends]

 

END