CHAPTER EIGHT

‘You manipulated them, Xantine,’ Sarquil said, his shiny silver head reflecting the red light of the Dreadclaw’s interior lumen.

‘Manipulate? Me?’ Xantine replied, playful outrage in his voice.

‘You thought I would not check the arsenal logs? You ordered the Dreadclaws primed and the armour slaves to begin the blessing rituals before the conclave had met for the vote.’

‘Of course, my friend,’ Xantine said. ‘What manner of leader would I be had I not prepared for all eventualities?’ He smiled inwardly. He hadn’t needed to leave such an obvious clue to his intentions, but it was hard to resist such a flourish. Xantine knew that his fastidious quartermaster would go snooping into the Exhortation’s records – only he and his coterie of dour obsessives truly cared about such trivialities on board the ship – and by preparing for battle before the decision to fight had been made, he proved his ability to outmanoeuvre his peers. Had the Exhortation’s reactor not been crippled by the attack from Serrine’s still-active surface defences, then they might have been moving on from the planet – the vote had gone against him, after all – but it was better not to think of that.

It was much more enjoyable to revel in Sarquil’s impotent irritation. It was the little things.

‘And as a result of my preparation, the Adored were able to reach combat deployment capability sixty-eight point two-five-nine times faster than would otherwise have been possible,’ Xantine continued, revelling in the chance to employ Sarquil’s statistics against him. ‘The rapier’s strike should be accurate, but it is nothing if it is not fast, Sarquil – I expect you to know that.’

‘That’s not the point, Xantine. And of course I know that. It is I who designed our combat-readiness protocols, I who drills our troops, applying principles of perfection to our rabble.’

And they hate you for it, Xantine thought. Sarquil’s drills lasted days and were grindingly dull – so dull that more than one of Xantine’s warband had asked for the right to take the quartermaster’s head in a duel. Xantine had demurred, however, preferring to leave Sarquil in his current position of relative power, at least for now. He might have been a devastatingly tiresome individual, but Sarquil was easily placated with material gains, and Xantine had to admit that his obsession with military precision had turned the Adored into a more effective fighting force.

‘Truly, your work is appreciated,’ Xantine said. ‘I look forward to seeing its effect on the battlefield.’

Sarquil grumbled, opened his mouth as if to speak again, then closed it. He cast his eyes down to his chaincannon instead, and pulled the ammunition belt from its chamber, counting the shells individually for the fourth time that day.

The Dreadclaw was designed to carry ten Space Marines, but Xantine and Sarquil shared the space with only a handful of the Adored’s elite. Not that they would be able to fit ten in, anyway – not with Lordling on board.

The massive warrior had been a Space Marine once, but he had grown beyond his armour’s capacity to contain him. He was swollen now, pink and pudgy, his pendulous belly hanging over Mark IV greaves that had split under internal pressure, and were now held together with leather straps of some unknown provenance. Knowing Lordling’s predilections, Xantine guessed it was human. Atop his bulk sat a hairless head held up by rolls of fat. His eyes were dark, and his mouth was pulled into a permanent rictus grin.

He grunted now, little puffs of confusion emanating from his slit mouth as he fiddled with his restraint harness. The creature had been forced to loop harnesses from three seats – each designed to house a warrior as large as a Space Marine – around his limbs to hold him in place during the turbulent journey from the bay of the Exhortation to the planet’s surface.

‘I trust you are comfortable, Lordling?’ Xantine asked, glad of the distraction.

The huge warrior looked up with excitement in his eyes as the Dreadclaw shook, saliva foaming at the corner of his mouth in anticipation of the battle to come. He wrapped monstrous fingers around his harnesses to better secure himself in his makeshift seat. ‘Guh!’ he said.

‘Good to hear!’ Xantine replied, grateful at least that he could use the brute to extract himself from conversation with Sarquil.

Xantine found Lordling useful in myriad ways, his apparently simple comprehension of existence and easy malleability making him a useful bodyguard, but he was hardly a conversationalist: in all the years Lordling had served with the Adored, Xantine had never heard him utter an intelligible word.

Fortunately, there wasn’t much time for extended conversation on their descent to Serrine. Xantine had toyed with the idea of making his entrance in Tender Kiss, but the Thunderhawk would present a tempting target for the attacking forces on the ground. Xantine had his suspicions about the rebels’ cause and origins, but it was an unnecessary risk to bring a landing craft into the middle of a warzone. One lucky shot with a missile launcher could bring it down, turning a heroic entrance into an embarrassment.

No, it was much more fitting to arrive by Dreadclaw. The drop pod assault had been a favourite of the Emperor’s Children from the days of the Great Crusade, a successfully orchestrated strike offering a heady mix of surprise, skill, and more than a little panache. They were used often in the Legion’s legendary Maru Skara strategy – a two-pronged attack that followed the open blade with a hidden blade designed to decapitate an enemy force by identifying and slaughtering its leaders.

But while they wore the Legion’s armour, even Xantine had to admit that the Adored did not have the power of the Emperor’s Children in their pomp. The Legion would deploy its scouts and sentries, identify lines of weakness, and strike with such applied force that the enemy was crippled within hours. For his part, Xantine still didn’t know who they were fighting on this world, let alone where he would find its leaders. Garbled reports from the useless Pierod had only described an unwashed mass, appearing inside the city as if they crawled from the pipes that ran beneath it.

Strike fast and hard, S’janth whispered. The daemon had grown more and more restless in her physical cage as she drew closer to the planet, the proximity of millions of souls rousing her consciousness.

‘Yes, my dear, I am aware of how to fight. This is hardly my first battle.’

‘Guh?’ Lordling asked, looking over at Xantine’s comment as the giant struggled again with his restraint harness.

‘Nothing, Lordling,’ he replied.

I am hardly nothing! S’janth bristled. I am the temptress of the maiden moon, the devourer of the light of Suldaen, the crescendo–

Xantine was delighted when the daemon’s list of conquests was drowned out by the sudden roar of burning atmosphere outside. That meant they had covered the distance from the Exhortation’s launch tubes to the planet, and would be hitting the ground soon. In a matter of moments, the Dreadclaw would split open and disgorge Xantine on the surface. He would soon see a new city, a new sky, a new world. He would make it perfect.

He had taken a moment to compose himself after he stomped down the winding staircase to the command tower’s bunker, out of view of the terrifying Space Marines, the gormless soldiers of the Sophisticant Sixth, and the damnable Frojean. He’d straightened his robes, adjusted his belt, and forced a cheer into his voice that he certainly didn’t feel.

The bunker door was huge, made of reinforced plasteel, and criss-crossed with hydraulic bars. Still, the tallest Space Marine nearly filled the entrance, his huge finger stabbing the call button on the bunker’s vox-unit.

The voices that came back over the boxy device were tinny and faint, the signal weakened by layers of protective ferrocrete, but Pierod could make out their meaning. They were squabbling.

The Space Marine pressed again, so hard that Pierod feared the unit would splinter. Finally, a single voice came back, shot through with a hint of panic.

‘Who is that?’

Pierod recognised the voice of Governor Durant. Most of the planet would have recognised it, he wagered, such was the governor’s predilection for addressing his populace.

‘Open the door, mortal. The glorious Adored demand your fealty.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Durant spluttered.

Courage rose in Pierod’s heart – a rare sensation – and he stepped forward. ‘My lord,’ he asked the tall Space Marine, not daring to meet his gaze, ‘if I may?’

The Space Marine twitched, as if preparing to strike him, but paused, and opened his palm instead. ‘You have but a moment, before I open this door myself.’

Pierod keyed the vox, and spoke quickly. ‘Lord Durant! It is Pierod, council member, and your humble servant!’

There was a brief discussion on the other end of the vox, and Pierod pretended not to hear as Durant asked his fellow parliamentarians who exactly he was talking to.

‘Ah yes, Pierod. Treasurer Tenteville’s assistant. What are you doing here, man? This location is reserved for high council members only. We do not have the resources in here for a man of your… appetites.’ Even over the vox, Pierod could hear the condescension dripping from Durant’s tone.

‘No, my lord,’ Pierod continued, keeping his voice light. ‘I bring glad tidings – I have saved us all!’

There was a snort over the vox. ‘And how, pray tell, have you done that, Pierod?’ Durant asked.

‘I have orchestrated the arrival of the Adeptus Astartes. Astartes of the Emperor’s Children, no less. Terra sends their most noble to answer our call.’

‘This is some rebel trick,’ Durant said. ‘We have had no contact with the Imperium for three decades. Why would they appear now, on the very day that we are attacked from within?’

‘I… I do not know, sir. But I do know that they were able to blunt the rebel assault. They have demanded command of Serrine’s remaining military forces, so that they may complete our liberation.’

There was a static buzz, as if Durant was considering the idea. ‘Sir,’ Pierod said. ‘I have brought us salvation. Open the door, that we may be saved.’

Serrine’s planetary council of nobles presented a sorry sight as they trudged up the stairs of the void port control centre. Separated from their elaborate dresses, multilayered robes and complicated wigs, they were crumpled creatures, clearly roused from their late-morning sleep by servants and soldiers before being whisked away to the safety of the bunker below. They wore nightgowns and undershirts, wrapping themselves in rugged blankets to stay warm.

In a few cases, they wore the evidence of last night’s excesses. Garish bodysuits and sleek bodices marked out those whose evenings had run long at Serrine’s various drinking establishments, before their pleasure was cut short by the arrival of extraction teams. Pierod almost pitied these souls. Lord Armand had crumpled against a nearby wall, his head cradled in his hands. He was moaning softly. Pierod had smelt the amasec on his breath as he filed out of the bunker, liquor whose after-effects were no doubt making this dies horribilis even more horrible.

The council had not been willing to leave the bunker, initially, but soon changed their mind when the tall Space Marine started cutting through the door with his massive power sword.

Durant’s sneering cynicism had died on his face as seven-foot-tall warriors of the Imperium in shocking pink power armour strode into the bunker. Shock gave way to fear, and then a quiet awe, as it became apparent that Pierod had been telling the truth: not only had Serrine had its first contact with the Imperium in thirty years, it had come in the form of the Emperor’s greatest warriors.

The rest of the council milled about now, throwing poorly concealed glances at the Space Marines, and then at Pierod. They had followed Durant out of the bunker, calmed eventually by the Space Marine’s brusque confirmation that they had neutralised the attacking forces. Any question as to the veracity of this statement was answered when the command tower’s great double doors swung open, admitting a tiny woman so festooned in jewellery that she resembled an exotic bird.

She stepped into the vast hallway so lightly that she seemed to hover, her bare feet making no sound as they padded against the control centre’s polished floor. Nor did she speak, and while she wore as much jewellery as a noble of Serrine, the planet’s council members saw the uncanny strangeness in the woman, and recoiled from her presence. In some, it was a physical revulsion – Lady Musetta visibly shuddered as the woman walked past, drawing her attention. The newcomer turned her stooped head to face the council member, a wide smile breaking across her face. She stepped towards Lady Musetta, bringing her face close and closer still, until they were inches apart. Her skin was taut and fresh, pink and puffy, as if under the surface it was permanently inflamed – the telltale signs of rejuvenat therapy.

She tilted her head to the side, the necklaces on her stooped neck jangling together, and sniffed at Lady Musetta’s throat. Musetta stifled a cry. Still inches from her, the tiny woman finally spoke.

‘Not this one,’ she said, in a desiccated voice that seemed to come from outside the room. Her breath smelled like rotten meat and stagnant water. It was almost enough to make Lady Musetta throw up.

The woman turned back to the room, leaving Musetta sobbing quietly, and resumed her slow padding, craning her neck to look at the other council members arranged around the room.

‘I say,’ Durant said, shaking off his shock and stepping forward, ‘who do you think you are?’

The tiny woman ignored him, and continued inspecting council members in turn. Durant stepped forward again, but found his way barred by a needle-sharp blade, levelled in front of his chest like a barricade. He followed the blade back to its owner, and saw the handsome Space Marine holding it level in a one-handed stance.

‘You will not interfere with Phaedre’s work,’ the Space Marine said in the voice of one explaining simple mathematics to a child. ‘This will go much faster if you just sit down and shut up.’

Durant opened his mouth to speak again, but thought better of it as the Astartes flicked the blade’s power source on, sending humming energy and dancing spurts of lightning down its length. The Space Marine gestured with the tip of the sword, and Durant sat back down, frowning.

The tiny woman stopped again in the middle of the room, and raised a bony finger at a bald man who had been studiously avoiding her gaze. Pierod recognised him from the Department of the Harvest. As this was one of the few arms of the council that had to make regular visits to the undercity, Pierod had made great pains to avoid contact with such representatives, lest the stink of the underclasses transfer onto him.

The woman’s demeanour changed as the bald man realised she was looking at him, and met her gaze. Her smile, previously beatific, developed a hard edge as an expression of pure malice settled on her face. More unsettling was her speed. She was next to the bald man in an instant, covering the ten yards between them so fast that she seemed to teleport. A gasp ran around the room as she cupped his chin and tilted his head back, exposing his throat. Once again, she moved her face close to his bare skin and sniffed.

‘Ahh, this is the one,’ she sighed, seemingly to herself.

‘What are you doing?’ the man asked, his eyes wide. He tried to shake his head free of her grip, but she was apparently too strong. He brought his own hands to her wrist, pulling down to try to break their connection, but even with the size difference, and with his obvious exertion, she maintained her grip on his face.

‘There are secrets in there, I can smell them,’ she whispered. Jewels and links of precious metals tinkled together as the man struggled, but the woman didn’t seem to notice.

‘My lord, help me! Call this vermin off, please!’ he shouted. Governor Durant looked over to the Space Marines, assessing the situation. The handsome one had removed his left gauntlet and was inspecting his nails, his power sword still active and held loosely in his right hand. The deformed one just appeared bored.

‘She’s hurting me!’ the man squealed.

‘It would be so delicious to give in, would it not… Balique?’ Phaedre said in a cruel voice. ‘Just tell me what I need to know.’ She clasped her long fingers around the man’s chin, squeezing his lips together.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ he said, his voice distorted. ‘How do you know my name? What do you want from me?’

‘I want to know where your leader is hiding, Balique,’ Phaedre said. She was whispering into the man’s ear, but some eldritch effect meant that every soul in the room could hear her demands. ‘Just tell me that, and you will be free.’

‘My leader is here, you maniac!’ Balique moaned, flailing an arm at Governor Durant.

‘No no, not him, silly. Your leader. Where is the Patriarch?’

True panic danced in Balique’s deep-set eyes now, a flash of understanding that suggested he knew how much danger he was in.

‘I… I… I can’t tell you…’ he said, stuttering over his words. Heads that had been careful to avoid meeting the man’s gaze during his interrogation now snapped to face him, his answer indicating his culpability in the attack.

‘Oh darling, of course you can,’ Phaedre said, tracing her other hand down his reddening cheeks.

‘No, no, you don’t understand – I can’t tell you. I can’t,’ he said, slowly tapping his temple with his free hand. ‘I want to, believe me, I do. But the words…’

‘A shame,’ Phaedre said, pushing his face away. Free of her grasp, Balique massaged his jaw, staring up at the tiny woman with a wary look on his face.

‘No matter. If you will not give me what I want, then I will make you pull it out.’

Phaedre’s bracelets bounced as she raised a hand. The man’s eyes widened as his hand moved suddenly. His fingers pulled together, making a wedge shape, before they pushed against the opening to his mouth, nudging and probing like a worm trying to make its way into a burrow.

Phaedre flicked her long fingers, and Balique’s mouth was pulled into a rictus grin by the same unseen force that was controlling his limb. He tried to shout something, but his words were muffled by his own hand as it scrabbled and clawed to make its way past his teeth and tongue and down his throat.

‘What was that?’ Phaedre asked sweetly. ‘You’re ready to tell me?’

There was a strained gurgling sound as he tried to scream, but the sound died as Balique started to push his hand down his own throat.

‘Shh now,’ Phaedre said, leaning close once more. She placed her forehead against the man’s own, and put her two hands to either side of his head. The air in the hall seemed to shimmer around the two of them, as something invisible passed from the man’s mind into Phaedre’s own.

With a sigh, she pulled Balique’s head forward – his hand still in his own mouth – and planted a light kiss on his forehead. ‘You have already given me everything I need to know,’ she said in a sing-song voice.

Tears streaked down the side of the man’s face now. Blood vessels in his eyes burst, decorating the white sclera with blooms of bright red. He fell to his knees, but still he pushed deeper, using his left arm for leverage until he was buried up to the elbow in his own gullet. For a moment, there was silence, any sounds choked off by the obstruction in his airway, before – with a heave and a wet plop – Balique pulled, yanking a fistful of his own innards out of his mouth. They hung limply in front of him for a moment, swaying gently as they dripped blood and other fluids onto the polished wooden floor, before he toppled face first into the bed of his own extracted organs.

Phaedre examined the dead man for a moment, a shy smile spreading across her lips, before she turned and padded away, her footsteps still silent.

‘The Cathedral of the Bounteous Harvest. That is where we will find our prize.’