Ravenor Returned Page 34

  ‘That’s Slyte,’ Culzean stammered. ‘In the name of darkness, that’s Slyte!’

  Nine

  Molotch saw what faced him. Disbelief twisted his face. He opened his mouth and blasted the glowing red figure with a stream of Enuncia so violent it made the dais shake.

  Carl withstood it and his own dark, red light seemed to grow stronger as if he was drinking the power in. He moved forward, his black talons rising.

  The remaining cipherists broke and fled, except for one who was too slow. Carl’s black bone-claws shredded him and spattered the white staging with wide patterns of blood.

  Molotch tried a final un-word, but Carl clawed at him. Molotch staggered back across the dais, yowling, the left side of his face torn off. Carl lashed round and ripped his claws through the spinning metal pages of the lexicon, tearing them away. Metal sheets shivered into the air, tumbled out of the suspensor beams, and fluttered onto the deck. Ripped and incomplete, the lexicon itself toppled off its support and crashed to the deck.

  The storm of noise grew louder. An infernal red quality now began to tinge the white radiance, as if that one drop of blood was staining the milk pink.

  Tears streaming down his face, Jader Trice ran forward and tried to gather up the torn and buckled pieces of the lexicon. They burned his hands. He looked up.

  Carl bent down over him and gently placed his black, bone-hand on the top of Trice’s head, like a temple deacon administering a benediction.

  Jader Trice rotted away into a dry, mummified husk, then that too disintegrated, and scattered away as dust on the wind.

  Carl turned and moved towards the dignitaries in the seating sections. Most were fleeing for their lives, jumping over the back of the dais.

  ‘Ley!’ Culzean cried. ‘Cover us now!’

  Leyla Slade pulled out her custom handgun and fired six times, not at the oncoming daemon, but at the dais stage in front of it. As each specialised bullet impacted, there was a burst of green vapour.

  The hooktors bubbled into being. Six of them, each one twice the size of a large man, released from their bondage in the painstakingly engraved bullets.

  They were slaughter-daemons of Nurgle, mindless warp-forms of immense physical power, each one a noxious, sticky cluster of diseased eyes, bulging from a swollen, panting body sack of reptile flesh and pulsing viscera. The hooktors moved on tripods of long, membranous limbs, like the furled wings of ancient flying lizards. Each limb culminated in a huge, hooked toenail, a hoof-claw as heavy and grey as stone.

  They made their terrible gibbering. The wretched, faecal stink of them filled the air. Thumping forward on their hideous toenails, they attacked Carl with unthinking frenzy.

  Culzean and Slade together grabbed hold of the gravely disfigured Diadochoi.

  ‘Time to go, lord!’ Culzean yelled. ‘The hooktors will hold it off long enough for us to make our escape!’

  The Diadochoi mumbled out some mangled words, blood pouring from his ripped face.

  ‘No arguments now,’ Culzean cried. They manhandled the Diadochoi off the dais.

  Behind them, Carl and the hooktors tore each other apart.

  When Harlon Nayl limped into the grand templum, the first thing he saw was my support chair, motionless, halfway down the nave. Facing it, ten metres away, knelt a dark-haired secretist, blood running from his nose and the corners of his staring, stale-yellow eyes.

  Nayl knew what this was. He could feel the queasy trembling in the air around him that told him these two, motionless figures were engaged in a titanic, invisible battle.

  As fast as he could move his injured limbs, Nayl ran forward, hoping he could slay the secretist psyker while he was still out of his skin and physically vulnerable. The only weapon Nayl had was Monicker’s serrated dagger.

  Revoke’s psy-control was staggering. He had left a sliver of his mind aware of his surroundings, to protect it from harm. He saw Nayl coming forward, and barked an un-word that punched Nayl in the stomach and dropped him to the ground.

  But not before Nayl had hurled the dagger.

  It stuck through Revoke’s right shoulder. Revoke yelped in pain and his grip on me slipped. I felt the clenching geometric forms loosen ever so slightly as Revoke fought to retain control and grind me to oblivion.

  All of my mind’s power was focused on the one, stark desire to pull free. As Revoke’s hold slackened, that single impulse squirted out and expressed itself physically instead. For a moment, my entire will channelled itself into the motivator systems of my chair.

  My armoured chair slammed down the nave, crunching straight into Revoke’s kneeling body and dragging it along. Revoke was still draped across the front of my chair when it struck the massive bronze altar at the end of the nave at close on forty kilometres an hour.

  My chair rebounded, shivering backwards. Revoke’s limp, broken corpse tumbled off onto the flagstones.

  I fought to regain my wits. I was hurt, exhausted, my mind trembling from the agonies of the fight.

  Back down the nave, Nayl was helping the unsteady Belknap to his feet. I powered out through the west entrance and on towards the old sacristy.

  It was blazing with light, but that light was now stained with red, and the stain was spreading along the sizzling axial beams blasting out across the city. Flames licked at the shattered windows, and sections of the dome, crackling and ablaze, were falling in.

  Ahead of me I saw Kys, Plyton and Unwerth.

  ‘There’s no way in!’ Kys yelled at me.

  There had to be.

  Kara blinked and looked up. The energised wind was shrieking around the buckled dais, and flames were gusting up the sacristy walls, reducing the ancient, precious frescoes of the caving dome to billowing particles of glowing ash.

  The light was red, not just from the flames, but from the energy radiating from the centre of the platform. What had been white and pure was now crimson and thick.

  She tried to move, but her body was too badly hurt. Bones broken, internal organs flaring with pain.

  ‘Oh, God-Emp– ahh! God-Emperor!’ she gasped out. She turned her head and saw the splattered gore and torn flesh of hook-nailed daemon-things covering the dais. What the hell had happened while she had been–

  Carl stood over her. Kara screamed.

  It wasn’t Carl. It was a red luminosity wearing his body like a robe, lighting his skin from within, exposing his skeleton like a medical scan. His right arm was denuded to the blackened bones, right up to the place where the Hinterlight’s medicae had surgically reattached it.

  ‘Oh Throne! Oh Holy Throne!’ she cried, terrified. The glowing daemon began to reach its taloned hand out towards her.

  ‘Please, Carl! Please, don’t!’ she wailed.

  The hand hesitated. The red glow inside Carl Thonius diminished for a moment. ‘Kara?’ he said, his voice sounding like it was coming from a long way off. ‘Oh, Kara, the stuff I know. I can see into your mind. You’re afraid of me. You’re afraid I’m going to kill you…’

  Carl’s eyelids fluttered. Shock and pain crossed his face. ‘No, no… you’re dying already! I can see it, that awful lump in your skull. Oh, Kara, no! Not you! Not like that!’

  Suddenly, the fierce red glow swelled inside him again. His voice became a rasping growl. ‘Let me make it better, Kara. Let me finish it quickly.’

  The black talons swept towards her face.

  Outside, I saw the light change. It swirled darker, as if gallons of red ink or blood was mixing into it. The axial beams were now almost crimson. I felt the shudder of an enormous psychic force burst inside the collapsing sacristy.

  ‘Back!’ I cried. ‘Get back all of you! Do it!’

  The ground shook, as if an earthquake was striking. The immense light inside the sacristy went out, leaving nothing but the swirling fire. Every floodlight around the square blew apart in sprays of glass, and the windows of all the buildings around the grand templum shattered.

  The dome of the sacristy ruptur
ed and fell. Flames belched out of the doorways and window-holes. The force of the eruption threw my companions into the air and flung my chair backwards.

  Crackling like forked lightning, the disconnected axial beams boiled out across the city of Petropolis. The nine hundred and ninety-nine temples and churches along Theodor Cadizky’s fearful lines of godless symmetry detonated like bombs, destroying many buildings around them. Firestorms engulfed entire hab blocks and stacks. At the governor’s palace, the monumental energy feedback incinerated the Encompass Room and engulfed the uppermost twenty floors of the tower in a gigantic fireball.

  It blazed like the raw summit of an angry volcano, hurling white flames up into the blackness of the sky.

  Ten

  Thousands died that night. Thousands of people, and some of them were innocent Imperial citizens, victims caught in the horror and the devastation. To most inhabitants of Eustis Majoris, it was an infamous disaster, a night of cataclysm. Most histories record it that way too.

  Certainly, the planet was plunged into civil chaos. Months of rioting and unrest followed, and spread throughout a subsector terrified that Imperial rule had been overturned. It led to civil wars, to famines, to plagues. Two decades later, the effects were still being felt.

  I content myself with the knowledge that, even at so great a cost, it was a small price to pay. I know what might have been if that cabal of madmen and their ruthless secret keepers had managed to complete their pernicious ritual to acquire the power they craved.

  Do not presume this means I am happy about the outcome. I deplore the destruction and the deaths. I console myself with the knowledge that every planet in the Imperium would have suffered the same or worse had Zygmunt Molotch achieved his apotheosis.

  Martial law was imposed on Eustis Majoris. It took a year to return Petropolis to a state resembling order. In that time, the ordos intervened, led by my Lord Rorken himself. They purged, they cleaned, they excised the last taints of Jader Trice’s corruption wherever it could be traced. Thousands more died, executed for heresy or complicity to that offence. Subsector governance was switched to Caxton for two terms, until a new lord governor subsector was found and elected under the supervision of the Inquisition.

  Even before the Inquisitorial intervention arrived and took charge of the wounded world, I had departed, taking my battered and wounded warriors with me. There was a final business to be dealt with, one that could not wait. Molotch, by Culzean’s manipulative contrivance, had fled Eustis Majoris. We would not rest until we had hunted him down and destroyed him once and for all.

  Medicae Belknap, perhaps the staunchest, truest soul I have ever met, urged me to stay and employ my influence and authority to restore control to the ravaged city. But that is not my area of expertise, and we were the only ones ready and able enough to begin an immediate pursuit of Molotch while he could still be traced. I would not allow him to remain free, or escape me once again. He had done that too many times already.

  We left Eustis Majoris the day after the destruction of the sacristy, travelling aboard Master Unwerth’s Arethusa.

  Nayl, Patience and Unwerth himself were recovering from their injuries. Maud Plyton came with us, seconded to my service. I was happy to have her.

  Zael remained in a coma. We transferred him to life support aboard the Arethusa. Frauka seldom left his side.

  The one miracle in it all, of course, was Kara and Carl. We found them unconscious in the burning ruins of the old sacristy, with barely a scratch on either of them.

  Somehow, perhaps by the divine providence of the God-Emperor himself, they had been spared in that final moment of catastrophe, as the ritual of Enunciation tore itself apart.

  SOON

  Aboard the Arethusa, in warp transit, 404.M41

  ‘It’s strange,’ said Belknap.

  ‘Good, though?’

  The medicae nodded. ‘Of course. But I’ve never seen anything like it. The mass is just shrinking. Disappearing. Look, I’m going to the lab to check these results. Perhaps there’s a fault with Unwerth’s rickety old medical systems.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Kara, sitting up on the infirmary cot.

  ‘So do I,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes.’

  ‘I’m glad you came with us,’ Kara said.

  He looked back at her. ‘You’re my patient,’ he said. ‘I told you that I’d stay with you as long as you needed me.’

  ‘Right,’ she shrugged.

  Belknap smiled and coughed. ‘What I meant to say was… I’m glad I came with you too.’

  He left the infirmary. Kara lay back on the cot, breathed deeply, and closed her eyes.

  ‘Kara?’

  She sat up with a start. Carl stood beside her bed.

  ‘Please…’ she began.

  ‘Kara.’ His eyes were wide and pleading. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

  ‘Please, Carl,’ she repeated. ‘I have to tell Gideon. I must. I really must.’

  He reached out his hands, imploring. She shrank back, especially from the right hand.

  ‘Please, Kara,’ he begged. ‘If you tell Ravenor, it’ll all be over. I need more time, just a little more time. I can master this, understand it, learn to control it.’

  ‘No, Carl–’

  ‘Please, Kara! I’m not what you think I am! Would a warp daemon have fought against Molotch and destroyed his ritual? Would an evil man have saved you? Would an evil man have cured you?’

  He touched the side of her head with the fingers of his right hand. She closed her eyes and shuddered.

  ‘I made you better,’ Carl Thonius whispered. ‘All I want is for you to help me to get better too. It’s not a lot to ask.’

  He took his hand away and smiled. ‘There. I see it. You won’t tell. I know you won’t. You won’t tell them about…’ his voice trailed off.

  ‘The stuff you know,’ whispered Kara Swole.

  About The Author

  Dan Abnett is a novelist and award-winning comic book writer. He has written over thirty-five novels, including the acclaimed Gaunt’s Ghosts series, the Eisenhorn and Ravenor trilogies and, with Mike Lee, the Darkblade cycle. His novels Horus Rising and Legion (both for the Black Library) and his Torchwood novel Border Princes (for the BBC) were all bestsellers. His novel Triumff, for Angry Robot, was published in 2009 and nominated for the British Fantasy Society Award for Best Novel. He lives and works in Maidstone, Kent. Dan’s blog and website can be found at www.danabnett.com

  Follow him on Twitter@VincentAbnett

  The author would like to thank Geoff Davis and Rob Stevenson at GW Maidstone - along with players Alan Hale, Liam Coleman, Chris ‘Squig’ Burfiend, James McGrath, Nathan Simmonds and Richard Dugher - for staging Inquisitor 101 on his behalf.

  The author would also like to remind Rob of the fluky headshot and say ‘aha ha ha ha ha’ again.

  For Matthew Churchill, the first to notice.

  A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

  Published in 2006 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

  Cover by Wayne England.

  Map by Ralph Horsley.

  © Games Workshop Limited 2006, 2011. All rights reserved.

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  ISBN 978-0-85787-073-5

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