Sentence is passed

[Welcheren]

This story is intended to work as a self-contained short without sequel.

 

I would particularly appreciate advice and critique on the pace, the style and (most specifically) on the plot twists and whether it comes off effectively.

 

Thanks.

 

Hope you enjoy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The air in the spiralling stairway was permeated with incense, pleasant and rich unlike anything he had ever encountered in his life as a solider. But like perfume on a body, Ermund reflected, its purpose might very well be to obscure something unwanted. That was a dangerous line of thought. So he obeyed his instructions and fixed his eyes dead ahead, ignoring the deep alcoves on either side, until he reached the chamber at the bottom. He was deep under the surface of the temple now. The last of the ceiling globes was far behind, and darkness clouded his eyes. Slowly Ermund kneeled down, reaching out as though he were blind until his fingers and knees made contact with soft furs that covered the floor. Then he lay down. He pressed his face as deep into the furs are he could, until his nose was pressed flat against the hard stone underneath. He spread his arms out and contrived to form a cross, flattening his body as much as possible. It worked. The genuflection was accepted. The stone wall directly in front of him slid aside with a groan like an angry bullfrog. This was the fifth chamber he had entered this way.

 

Ermund regained his feet and descended the last flight of steps. They were broad; designed to accommodate a larger figure. Finally he gained the antechamber. It was separated from the final chamber by curtains of silver chains, adorned with heavy precious stones set in gold clasps that hung from links in the chains. Two tiny lumen-globes – designed to act as simulacra of candles – reflected a warm light off stones and metals that he could not recognise. He drew his breath and passed into the deepest sanctum.

 

Careful not to look at the throne set in the wall towards his right, Ermund kneeled on the sable furs that bedecked the entire floor. As he did so, he dared only look at the armoured boots that reached the floor: jet-black and chased in gold. “Report servant,” said a voice that could crack marble.

 

*****

 

Far away, just beneath the surface of this world, Jolim’s Imperial Guard uniform stank of sweat. His body rode a seesaw of terror and awe, a nauseating alchemy of feelings rushing through his system as he witnessed the finest warriors of the Imperium wreak havoc among the rebels. Despite their armoured bulk he could barely see them. The murk of the transit tunnel concealed their agile movements almost completely. But he could hear the report of their guns. And when the flashes seared his eyes, he could see, for a brief moment, the angry red plains of their battle plate, and the hues of personal heraldry. The staccato eruptions of light made their movements appear spasmodic and abrupt – as if the Angels were teleporting their way across the tunnel, closer and closer to the rebel’s gun-nest. He had noticed the device upon their left pauldrons: a black drop of blood, suspended over a black chalice. But Jolim had never seen it before. Not that it mattered. All he needed to know, right now, was that these were Adepts of the Stars. Yes: there were men of flesh and bone within those suits of armour, but they were not susceptible to mortal frailty and weakness. They sang as they fought, with voices that could sunder stone: a litany filled with brutal promises. They sang of blood and death, of unrelenting service and the weight of honour. What kind of mortal could prevail against such an onslaught on the body and the mind and the soul? Jolim almost pitied the rebels. Onwards and onwards the Astartes pushed, closer and closer to heart of the traitors’ stronghold.

 

Abruptly a new source of light lanced through the dark. Jolim buried his face in the crook of his arm, but he had seen it. A lacannon. And, unless his eyes had betrayed him, a multi-melta set in the gun-nest beside the cannon.

 

Something moved behind him. Fear contorted his gut until his lasgun slipped from his sweat-slicked fingers. Before he could turn, the thing moved into sight and relief chased the fear. One of the Angels had come to his side. Yet this one was different. He did not bear the plate of his brothers, nor was his face covered. Without sparing Jolim a glance, the lightly armoured figure placed his boot against the wreckage of the sentinel walker where Jolim had cowered, and sighted down the length of a long rifle. Its muffled bang was something of an anti-climax, but Jolim was certain he knew who the target had been. Poor devils. The traitors stood no chance.

 

*****

 

“The quest for freedom is underway, my lord.” Ermund breathed into the soft furs.

 

“I see.” Some subtle, and barely detectable, change in the voice had occurred. Without understanding why, Ermund looked up. All he could see was a deep leather hood, resting atop a great black cloak that ended above the armoured boots. “I pray,” the voice within the hood declared, “that the Emperor will preserve your soul for the service you have rendered”. A pistol emerged from within the cloak. Ermund was paralysed before his executioner, who took his life with a blinding spear of light.

 

*****

Jolim could not see where the other Angels had gone. Broken corpses lay strewn about the remains of the lascannon and a range of other heavy weapons. Filled with the joy of triumph, as if he had conquered the enemy himself, he rose from behind the sentinel and punched the air. He would have cried out; would have bellowed some praise to the Emperor, but there was no air in his throat. Only blood and the pain of teeth tearing into his flesh, and the bone-crushing strength of the Angel who had seized him.

 

*****

 

Inquisitor Benedic stood up from the throne. He removed the heavy vox-caster from his face, threw the vast cloak from his shoulders, and returned his laspistol to its holster. Then, with a quick gesture he engaged the vox bead in his collar. A voice, laced with static, responded:

“What is your will, lord Benedic?”

“Extraction, agent Ramin.” A solemn mood had taken hold of Benedic. His voice was slow and heavy with gravitas. “To my regret, the citizens of this world have failed the test.”

On the one hand, it was good that he had discovered this now before the insidious foes of the Emperor could exploit the people’s weakness to graver effect. But even so, Benedic was possessed of sufficient grace to admit that he had miscalculated. For, on the other hand, he had lost control of the rebellion, this time. It had spread somewhat quicker and deeper than usual. Now, the normal methods of suppression might no longer suffice.

“Ramin, I believe you mentioned that Astartes from the Blood Drinkers chapter had been observed somewhere in-system?”

“My lord, one of their Strike Cruisers is still on the edge.”

“Hail them. Demand their intervention on this planet under my seal. Urge them to make planet-fall as soon possible.”

“Aye my lord.”

Ramin was a more than adequate agent. Benedic had no need to reiterate the need for secrecy. Few, even among the Inquisition, could fully appreciate the exigency of the methods Benedic had developed and honed over the last century, for they did not perceive the nature of the cancer that was besetting the body of the Imperium as he did. For a last time, Benedic looked around the room. He had been fortunate to find this temple. Previous forays on other Imperial worlds had forced him to deal in far less salubrious locations. Strangely, he thought as his fingers traced over deep scars in the armour over his chest, some of those worlds had proven the most loyal. Not only had they resisted every incentive to rebel, they had taught him to wear armour in the first place. He felt proud of those worlds. An intense fear took hold of him again. What if this is all the Imperium has been reduced to? From being the sole bearer of light and the custodian of truth, shouldering the obligation to bring illumination to all the galaxy and beyond, to policing its own citizens and enforcing compliance among an unfaithful and traitorous people? To cope with this fear, to shield his sanity, Benedic had learned to marshal his faith. A time would come again, when the Imperium would look beyond its borders to those members of Mankind who had not yet been reached. For now, they endured a time unprecedented trial. His work was, therefore, essential for preserving the soul of the Imperium - until such a time as the dangers from outside and inside lessened, and they could again take up the vocation to reunite all humanity. But for now, those like him, who had been burdened with this insight must remain steadfast. So he waited in the dark temple for extraction.

 

*****

 

Brother Mizeal of the Blood Drinkers chapter, tenth company, wondered whether the experience of fear was as anything near as abominable as the sensation of shame that stung at his innards now. At times like this he felt nothing like the Angel has was made out to be by the mortals, but rather like a nightmare made flesh. “Sanguinius aid me”, he prayed. Only a moment’s weakness, one moment of fully imbibing the joy of battle had caused him to breach his honour. No one had witnessed the act - as far as his trans-human senses could detect. Even so, he knew that his own conscience would drag his feet to the Chaplain when he returned to the fleet. But then, like all the warriors of his order, Mizeal took comfort from the knowledge that he and his brothers sacrificed everything in the defence of humanity. He looked down at the body. All must serve as best they can. “Blood is life. Life is duty. To deny the blood is to deny life. To deny life is to deny duty. To deny duty is to betray the Emperor”. With his mind stilled he cast his eyes around the transit tunnel again. Inquisitor Benedic had been correct. The rebellion on this world ran deep. Two weeks had already elapsed since the Blood Drinkers’ fleet had intercepted the call of Benedic’s agent, Ramin.

 

Turning his eyes away from the pallid corpse at his feet, Mizeal voxed his sergeant and requested new orders. Like all his brothers, he would not relent until this world had been cleansed. Then he would proceed to the next assignment, face the next foe, and so he would guard the Imperium against the myriad monsters that besieged it. Such nobility notwithstanding, Mizeal could not perceive what faces the most pernicious of these monsters bore.  

[Tipper]

I liked it! Nice twist, not at all far fetched, but still surprising.

[Welcheren]