Part 14 (1/2)

He turns to the Relictor crouched next to him in the ditch. Brother Borellus has his bolter balanced on the scorched earth and his shoulder is jerking back as he fires round after round down the road, picking off the advancing traitors with medical precision. For a second, Comus cannot recall exactly how they got there.

*Where are the others?' he groans, wiping the blood from his eyes.

Brother Borellus holds fire for a second but does not turn around. *Brothers Sabine and Thaler are just behind you, further down the ditch. Stra.s.ser, Vortimer and Brunman are holed up in the barn, although they've taken some heavy hits. Volter is on the far side of the road.' A note of pride enters his voice. *His lascannon is giving them pause for thought.' He fires off another few rounds, muttering happily to himself as more of the traitors spin back into the clouds. *And Sergeant Halser has entered the city, with Inquisitor Mortmain's servant, but...' He looks down at the Librarian briefly, his voice hesitant. *...you know that.'

Comus nods, relieved that Borellus's words make sense. He cannot help but notice, though, that his battle-brother's Low Gothic seems unusually crude and clumsy. He realises, to his horror, that he is comparing it unfavourably to the alien language that has embedded itself in his thoughts. Anger knots his stomach. Why should they have to endure this? Why should they have to prove themselves after so many long centuries of service and so many sacrifices in the Emperor's name? He shakes his head and looks back along the ditch. As Borellus stated, there are another two Relictors crouched behind him firing steadily into the oncoming ranks. Above them, further down the road, rise the walls of Madrepore and its s.h.i.+mmering, hexagonal tower. Prove them wrong, Sergeant Halser, he thinks, grasping one of the religious texts chained to his power armour. Show them what we are worth.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

As Inquisitor Mortmain marches through the Domitus, he draws the billhook from his belt. The black metal blinks red under the flas.h.i.+ng lights as he strides through the corridors, swinging it back and forth, testing the weight of the blade in his hand. Crude script runs down its centre: words too vile for even an inquisitor to study. As he reaches a shattered door he pauses, listening to what he hopes is the sound of vast, thermonuclear weapons powering up. But the s.h.i.+p is shaking so violently he cannot be sure if he is hearing the result of his orders or the sound of the approaching daemon.

*Cerbalus,' he breathes, wondering if he has the strength to face the coming encounter. He is an old man, and all the faith in the galaxy cannot match the fury of youth. The officers on the bridge have their orders and they will work fast, but he will still need to buy them time. The inquisitor casts his mind back through the decades to the day he bound Cerbalus to his will. On the scorched earth of Azoras he and his brothers faced the monster down, armed with powerful, ancient wards and a bitter chorus of litanies. But the cabal that saved Azoras is no more. Inquisitors Medeon, Orium and Shaaraim are long dead. This time he must face the beast alone. Even his old friend Sergeant Halser will soon be gone: torn apart by a firestorm of Mortmain's own creation.

Mortmain looks down at the capital I emblazoned across his breastplate. Youth is gone. Friends.h.i.+p is gone. Faith will have to suffice. He kicks the broken door, scattering the blackened metal across the heaving corridor and strides into the next chamber. He enters a pillar-lined cloister, so wide and tall it seems as though he has stepped out into a stormy, summer's evening. The air is cloying, thick and sulphurous. Ancient, beautiful mosaics are tumbling from the walls, exploding across the flagstones like brittle, enamelled rain.

At the far end of the central colonnade there is a shape. It is no more than a shadow amongst shadows, but Mortmain knows his prey. Evil seeps from it like smoke. The inquisitor peers through the darkness, straining to make out details, but the shadow s.h.i.+fts and ripples across the floor, liquid and supple.

There is still hope, thinks Mortmain. The idea surprises him, but once loosed from his subconscious it grows in certainty. *There is hope,' he breathes, realising that the daemon is bodiless; it has no host. Its vile presence has been set loose by Justicar Lyctus and his Grey Knights, and without a physical home it will soon be dragged into the immaterium, folded back into the s.h.i.+fting h.e.l.l that sp.a.w.ned it.

The shadow elongates and drifts down the colonnade, a.s.suming a fixed shape only when it is a few metres away. It adopts the form of a man; or, at least, something resembling a man. It towers over Mortmain, three metres tall and topped by the head of a diseased, slick-feathered carrion crow. As the daemon steps closer, it spreads a pair of ink-black wings and two scrawny arms, delighting in the destruction it has wrought. *Do you think, master,' it asks in an amiable tone, *that, after all these years of service, I might request something in return?'

Mortmain gives no reply, stepping sideways between the columns, pa.s.sing the billhook from hand to hand. He knows his pistol would only feed the thing's strength, but the blade has secrets even Cerbalus does not share.

*Come now,' laughs the daemon. *Is it so much to ask?' Its form breaks apart and rea.s.sembles itself behind Mortmain, causing him to whirl around and adopt a fighting stance. *Think of the squalid deeds I have performed at your request. Think of the blood on my hands that should have been on yours. Surely I deserve a little thanks? A little recompense?'

Mortmain backs carefully away. There is hope, he thinks again as he notices an edge to the daemon's voice. Despite its attempt to sound calm, he senses an undercurrent of emotion. Decades of interrogation have honed his senses until he can discern even the subtlest hints of fear, or anger. As he circles the daemon, Mortmain realises that he has one final weapon: the daemon hates him, hates him with a pa.s.sion that could even blind it to anything else.

*You think I would let your vile presence pollute the body of an Imperial inquisitor?' Mortmain's voice is as calm and even as the daemon's. Suddenly he feels as though his entire life has been building to this moment, this single test of his will. Can he keep the daemon distracted long enough for the crew to launch the attack on Ilissus? Can he play one final trick on a servant of the greatest trickster of them all? *Try me, Cerbalus!' he roars, relis.h.i.+ng the look of shock in the daemon's avian eyes. *I will take you down, daemon! Send you back to the pit you crawled out of!'

Cerbalus's huge, ragged wings droop and it tilts its head to one side, surprised to find the old man in such a defiant mood.

Before the daemon has chance to reply, Mortmain snaps a syllable so coa.r.s.e and guttural he has to spit it out with a grimace. As he speaks, the first of the glyphs carved into his billhook blazes with light and he attacks with surprising speed, slas.h.i.+ng the blade through the daemon's leg before it has chance to recoil.

Cerbalus screeches. The sound slices through the cacophony, shrill and hideous as it echoes around the towering columns. *How?' it whines, scrabbling back into the darkness, tearing up flagstones with its clawed feet.

*How?' cries Mortmain. *How can I hurt you like that?' He swings the billhook from side to side, flinging inky blood into the shadows as he advances on the huge, cowering shape. The first character on the blade is still aflame with the force of his oath, and as he advances he spits out another contorted syllable. As the sound leaves his lips, a second glyph pulses into life and Mortmain leaps forwards, hacking another chunk out of the daemon's leg.

Cerbalus wails in pain and shock and, with a beat of its enormous wings, hurls itself up towards the distant, ribbed vaults of the ceiling.

*Your name, daemon!' Mortmain's voice is a deep, victorious howl. *I did not share everything with you! Do you think I have been idle all these long decades? Do you think I never foresaw this moment?' The inquisitor climbs on the shattered stump of a marble column and levels the billhook at the shape hovering overhead. *Face me, abomination! Or are you afraid?'

Cerbalus swoops across the chamber and wraps its s.h.i.+fting form around one of the pillars, several metres above Mortmain. At the word *afraid' its bird-like head snaps around and glares at the inquisitor. *Afraid?' it screeches. Its rage is so great that its form s.h.i.+fts through dozens of shapes, trembling and flickering in and out of view. *You are nothing! You are the lapdog of a puppet corpse. How can you even look at me? You are an insect!'

The lights in the chamber dim as a grinding, deafening hum rumbles through the walls.

The daemon snaps its head in the other direction, peering at the broken door. *You have already begun,' it whispers. *Exterminatus.'

The chamber lurches to one side and Mortmain is forced to grab a pillar to steady himself. *Go, then, daemon,' he cries. *You will find nothing but pain here.'

Cerbalus looks back at the inquisitor, its eyes full of dark fire. *What would you know of pain?' The daemon launches itself from the pillar, ripples through the darkness and materialises next to Mortmain.

Before the inquisitor can raise his billhook, a ragged, filthy claw slices through his leather cloak and sends him flying across the room in a spray of blood. He slams into a pillar with a howl of pain and scrambles away into the darkness, cursing under his breath.

Cerbalus spins on the spot, spreading its wings and arching its long neck as it laughs with pleasure, forgetting everything but the ecstasy of revenge.

Mortmain staggers from pillar to pillar, his head spinning. Once he reaches the far side of the chamber he pulls back the shreds of his cloak to reveal an arm that is equally torn. His left bicep is completely ruined, hanging from his tattered flesh like raw steak. As the daemon continues spinning through the shadows, laughing to itself, Mortmain tears a strip of leather from his cloak and ties a quick tourniquet. He still has the glowing billhook in his right hand, and as he taps it against his breastplate he is relieved to feel that it is still intact. Without the prayers and sigils worked into its ornate metal, the mere presence of the daemon would split his mind as thoroughly as his ruined arm.

Suddenly the laughter is right next to him, but this time Mortmain is ready. He rolls clear of the daemon's claws and chants a third, potent syllable, lighting up another character on his weapon.

Cerbalus cringes at the sound, but before it can withdraw its claw, Mortmain chops down with the billhook, slicing another piece of the daemon and causing it to screech in pain and frustration.

This time it does not flee, though. Before Mortmain can draw breath for another letter, the daemon stoops low over him and a talon rips open his thigh, sending him toppling to the ground. The pain is like nothing he has ever experienced but, as he slams onto the floor, he manages to gasp another syllable and lash out with the billhook.

Cerbalus croaks and gurgles as the blade rips open its throat.

By now the inquisitor's black weapon is alive with flaming characters. *I have your name!' howls Mortmain, attempting to disguise the lie by screaming it with all the force he can muster. *I will banish you, Cerbalus! You have no place here!'

The daemon's twisted, stooping form backs away from him, clutching at the wound in its throat, unable to comprehend how the inquisitor's weapon could sever flesh that does not even exist. *My name? How could you?'

The lights dip again as another deafening rumble fills the chamber.

Almost there, thinks Mortmain. Just a few more minutes.

The daemon looks at the doorway, its head twitching with indecision. It looks in the direction of the Domitus's bridge, then back at the gore-splattered man writhing at its feet. It peers suspiciously at the short, curved blade pulsing in Mortmain's grip, trying to make out the characters that have yet to ignite. *You do not have the power to wield such a thing. If my name were really held in that piece of metal it would tear your mind open.'

Knowing that he only has to maintain the lie for a few more minutes, Mortmain screams another syllable and attempts to stab Cerbalus again.

The daemon beats its wings and disappears.

Mortmain's broken body floods with adrenaline at the thought that the daemon has given up on him and made for the bridge. Then he sees it reappear, crouched like a gargoyle on the broken pillar where he was standing a few minutes earlier.

*My flesh is not for one such as you!' he cries, spraying blood across his breasplate. He tries to stand, but his leg collapses beneath him and he sprawls across the flagstones like a drunk. *Try me, Cerbalus. Just a few more characters and you will be in my power once more.'

Cerbalus lets out a scream that even drowns out the klaxons. It launches itself from the pillar, smas.h.i.+ng headlong into the inquisitor and sending them both tumbling across the b.l.o.o.d.y flagstones.

As they roll, Mortmain continues crying out the foul syllables and hacking into the daemon's s.h.i.+fting flesh, even as Cerbalus's frenzied claws tear his body apart.

Finally, they come to a halt against the feet of a statue and Mortmain begins to laugh.

*You are mine!' screams the daemon, lifting the inquisitor up into the air by the throat and shaking him like a broken toy.

Mortmain continues to laugh even as his innards spill to the floor. The chamber is shaking more violently than ever as the Domitus's weapons silos finally launch their missiles at Ilissus.