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“Quietly – around this way,” she whispered to her retinue, indicating a narrow alleyway running behind an array of heavy machinery; though it was blocked off by a locked gate, she circumvented the lock with an ease that bordered on the contemptuous. Behind her, the Magos gave a scandalised blurt of Binharic.
“My lady, that is hardly behaviour that is becoming of a Rogue Trader,” her Seneschal chided her, an edge of desperation clear in his voice.
“But it’s very “becoming” of a bilgerat. This is how I get things done,” she replied coolly, a slight edge to her voice. Heinrix said nothing, but filed away her comment for later, a suspicion confirmed.
They passed a corpse – poison gas inhalation, Heinrix thought, looking at the blisters around the dead man’s mouth and the blue-grey shade of his lips. He noted how the Rogue Trader clung tightly to the cover the machinery provided, slipping effortlessly from one shadow to the next, her rifle raised to her shoulder, her posture better now they were away from the gravity of Rykad Minoris. She still moved more clumsily on the planetoid’s surface than she had in the brief time he’d seen her aboard her flagship, though he noted that the way she brought her shoulders up around her ears and hunched down seemed to be a result of habit, rather than gravity.
“Iceman, are you going to stand there gawking all day? There’s a heretic that needs ending – isn’t that supposed to be your bread and butter?” hissed Mistress Tlass.
He shook his head. “I am trying to get a tactical read on the situation…” he began, before the witch snorted quietly.
“That would work better if you moved up to where Her Ladyship is waiting – you’ll actually see things from there, not just the backside of… whatever this is,” she murmured, waving a disparaging hand at the machinery they were lurking beside.
He glowered at her and crept forward, until he was crouched beside the Rogue Trader. She was peeking past a rocky outcrop into the open pit below. “I count… eight – no, sorry, nine armed men. And, who is that strapped to the table down there?” she hissed, as her eyes quickly darted across the scene before them. “Oh, and more of those lens things like we found under the Upperway, Abelard,” she called softly back over her shoulder. The seneschal grunted in agreement as he got a look at the device, and Heinrix frowned.
“You’ve seen these before?” he asked.
“Yes – we stumbled across a group of madmen performing some ritual while we were on our way to the Governor’s little hidey-hole. They held some poor guy down in front of it and it burned his eyes out…” she said, swallowing hard.
“Doubtless there’s a connection here. Look – there are smaller lenses over the tables there…” he indicated with a tilt of his head. He inched forward, wanting to hear what the well-dressed man bending over the prisoner was saying.
“…I told you, Evvie. They are hiding so much from us. Arrogant mentors, holy brothers and sisters – what have they ever given us? Nothing but a pile of fibs and useless admonitions. But Aurora – she is different. She spoke with me like no one ever had before. She revealed the truth to me. And now I can reveal it to you… if you just stop struggling for one minute!”
From behind, he heard a soft, dismayed gasp. “Oh! Lord Evayne!” the young Lady Orsellio whispered, her clawed hands flying to her mouth in horror.
“That’s the Winterscale kid? Well, it looks like he’s in need of our help. Let’s see if we can get the drop on them…” the Rogue Trader murmured, dropping to her belly and crawling across the rocky outcropping.
“No – wait!” Heinrix hissed, but she’d already skidded down a slope of pebbles and scree, sending a cascade of debris clattering noisily to the ground. The man – Warden Casteglia, presumably, Heinrix supposed – turned at the sound. “What?”
Sevi cursed, and Heinrix thought he heard the words “frekking gravity!” amidst the torrent of invective as she scrambled backwards, trying to put something solid between her and the guns that were now swinging in her direction. Her longlas was several metres behind her, as useless to her as if she’d left it on her flagship.
The warden straightened. “We have guests? From the von Valancius ship, I would wager. Evvie, my dear, you will have to wait. Do not faint, I beg of you. It’s important that you feel everything. Including your other eye.”
Heinrix saw the expression on Severine’s face – one of revulsion, fury, and a terrible, deep-seated fear. One hand reached for a pistol holstered on her thigh.
“Step away from the hostage at once!” she ordered, her voice almost steady as she took another step back and drew abreast with a small boulder.
The warden sneered at her, then glanced at the maimed young man. “Hostage? How rude! Young Winterscale is my guest and dearest friend. He came here himself to visit his old acquaintance and have a heartfelt talk and I… I am merely showing him some appropriate hospitality to commemorate our reunion.”
Behind the warden, Heinrix heard the boy moan weakly. From the cover of the machinery, he heard Lady Orsellio’s silvery voice snap, “How dare you, contemptible peasant! For every drop of noble blood you spill, you will pay a hundredfold more!”
Heinrix grit his teeth and reached out with his sorcerous senses, feeling the Winterscale boy’s vitals. His pulse was rapid and thready, his breathing laboured. “The boy is still alive. But if we want him to stay that way, we should hurry,” he called out to the Lord Captain, stepping forward a few paces, so he would have a clear line to close with the warden should it become necessary.
Abelard had evidently had the same thoughts, and was moving up beside him, ready to rush between the Lord Captain and any bullets that might start flying. “The poor fool. I knew nothing good would come of his naïve attempt at negotiating with heretics…”
Severine seemed shaken. “Why did you mutilate these people?” she demanded, as she got a good look at the bodies on the other tables, her face draining of colour. Heinrix noticed her hands had started to shake and her voice cracked as she spoke.
“These are my Optimates. Saints who will guide the flock at the fated hour. Listen…” he urged, pausing for a moment. “Can you hear? You can’t? They are crying out. Calling. It’s just that their cries are not meant for our ears. They cast their voices out there, beyond the edge of the glass, into the transparent quiet. There, they are heard. There, their call is answered.”
Severine grimaced. “I’ve heard enough. You’re insane, and a heretic to boot,” she said, her hand snatching the pistol from her thigh holster and snapping a neat headshot, right between the warden’s eyes, in the space between seconds. The warden’s head snapped back, his body curving in a graceful arc –
And then in a flicker of painful light, he vanished. There was a maniacal cackle from across the pit, and one of the lens devices glowed as it re-formed the warden, sans bullet-hole.
Heinrix sighed and drew his weapon. “There was never any point in having this conversation to begin with,” he muttered as several things happened at once.
The warden raised his hand and the maimed prisoners began thrashing in their death throes. “The time for words has passed. Optimates, give your power to this Harbinger of Aurora! Let our foes see the truth – or become awash in blood!”
Severine rolled – more cautiously than she had in the Cenobium, Heinrix noted – behind the boulder, as several las-bolts splashed off the rock where she had been standing a moment before.
Lady Orsellio drew back the delicate, jewelled cover over her third eye, allowing the indescribable light of the immaterium to bathe the battlefield, reducing several guards to desiccated husks and immolating a couple of others.
Sister Argenta, who had brought up the rear of their formation, let out a peal of delighted laughter as her bolter barked and put a guard down, the spray of self-propelled explosive projectiles forcing others to keep their heads low to avoid meeting their comrade’s fate.
Severine scrambled back up the rocky slope, grabbing up her longlas and crouching low to take aim across the pit at where the warden had reappeared. The warden threw himself prone, but it became clear in a moment that she had not been aiming at him; her shot hit the machinery housing the delicate glass, and the device crumpled, the lens shattering into thousands of tiny, iridescent shards. She allowed herself a tight grin as she shifted her aim, hunting for her next target.
Heinrix recognised her strategy immediately, as did the Magos, who immediately unleashed a scorching torrent of plasma into another lens, melting it into slag. Heinrix didn’t linger to admire the tech-priest’s handiwork; he sprinted towards the third, and hopefully final, lens in the pit, scrambling across the loose stone and dodging a spray of bullets and bolt rounds as he ran. He felt something tug sharply at his cloak, but sprinted on, skidding as he came around a tight corner between two stone pillars. The lens was tucked into the sheltered corner, gleaming with fell light that made him feel immediately nauseous. He used the momentum of his sprint across the lip of the pit to power his first swing, smashing his sword down through corrupted glass and tainted metal, and was rewarded with a sharp crack. A second swing, this time augmented with the power of his psyche, focused in a prayer of banishment, sheared the device in half. As it shattered, the dark energies within the lens exploded outwards, throwing Heinrix back over the ridge so he tumbled down into the pit itself. He landed hard, winded for a moment, then rolled to his feet as a sword came down where his head had been a moment before.
A flash, a moment of bright heat, and his assailant was at his feet, his head a smoking ruin. He glanced up to see Severine wink at him before she turned her attention to a new target. Heinrix blinked in astonishment, but put it from his mind – now isn’t the time for this, van Calox! – and dashed towards where the Warden had teleported, to hear the familiar throaty roar of the seneschal’s chainsword already hard at work. Heinrix pressed in at the warden’s undefended flank, slicing through his hamstrings and forcing him to his knees. Abelard’s next swing was barely parried, and on the backswing, the chainblade ripped through the man’s sword arm. The Warden tried to gurgle a prayer to his corrupt patrons, but was stopped by Heinrix’s force sword erupting out through his chest in a gout of blood; as he began to topple, the seneschal’s chainsword sailed in a neat arc and sliced the traitor’s head from his shoulders.
“Nice work, Seneschal. Interrogator, can you come here and see what you can do for the Winterscale kid?” Severine’s voice called from where she was removing the straps that held the wounded man down.
“Evayne… Winterscale… af Koronus,” he gasped, his voice barely audible. “Greatly pleased… to make your acquaintance.”
Heinrix reached a hand towards Evayne, the temperature dropping sharply. “He is in a bad way, but timely assistance from a chirurgeon will save his life. For now, I will… do what I can,” he told the Rogue Trader, who nodded and took a cautious step backwards. As Winterscale’s wounds began to close and his breathing eased, Mistress Tlass whistled. “Fancy that, Iceman… Can you make his eye grow back, too?”
He almost flinched at the casualness of her remark, staring at her as ghosts of memory surfaced. “It is more difficult than it may seem,” he told her, fighting to keep his voice level. As he focused on channelling his psykana, he heard Lady Orsellio’s delicate voice describing the “warm hues” that accompanied Winterscale’s visits to Eurac V; heard her begging the Lord Captain to help him. Heard Evayne’s gallant attempt to smooth over the ignominy of their first meeting being so disgraceful. He tried to tune out the conversations, to concentrate on manipulating the young man’s metabolic processes without overwhelming him entirely – a delicate balance to strike.
He wasn’t sure when young Winterscale passed out, or how long he had been working to stabilise the boy, when a frail, narrow-boned hand landed on his arm. “Heinrix, you can stop now,” Severine told him. His eyes snapped open, gazing up into hers – like star sapphires – and he withdrew his hand from Evayne. “His shuttle crew are going to take him to the Vigil. I think we should all do the same thing – I’m sick of this place…”
He pushed himself wearily to his feet, steadying himself on the table as Winterscale’s people rushed their lord away. Felt Severine’s eyes on him, and knew they saw more than he wanted her to see. “I would be glad to be away from here as well,” he agreed, using a last burst of biomancy to clear the fatigue from his body, at least enough to get back to the shuttle without staggering. It wouldn’t do to show weakness before the Lord Captain.