Warhammer 40,000 - [Weekender 01] Read online

  A roar. The sharp rattle of chains. A black-armoured beast rushed at him. Corvin fired twice, recoiling against the wall of the corridor. He heard his attacker slump back, the chains clattering as the tension on them eased. The noise from the other cells intensified, as though the beasts sensed the carnage nearby, or perhaps, Corvin thought with a shiver, they smelled his fear.

  Guiding the luminator into the cell, the inquisitor took his first proper look at the beast within. He grinned in satisfaction. It was as he suspected, a Space Marine. Though not as he had previously known them. The beast was a dark parody of the Imperium’s superhuman champions. Corvin activated his pict-recorder.

  Swollen veins threatened to push through the skin of its forehead and neck. The scleras of its eyes were gore-red, and its throat emitted a continuous growl as it writhed on the floor. It wore black armour emblazoned with blood-red saltires. Tattered, blood-soaked scrolls hung from its pauldrons and breastplate.

  “Subject shows remarkable resilience.” Corvin zoomed in on the gaping holes he’d blasted in its chest, before raising his pistol and shooting it in the face. The Space Marine slumped backwards and lay still. “But not to head shots.”

  “That was a mistake, inquisitor.”

  Corvin spun around and fired. The opposite wall glowed faintly, scorched by the melta blast.

  “To have come here under false pretences, to have killed one of my flock.” The voice in the darkness was closer this time.

  “Show yourself, daemon!” Corvin tapped his luminator, expanding the beam to encompass the corridor. Appollus’s leering skull helm appeared from the darkness. In terror, Corvin pulled the trigger. The Chaplain was quicker, crushing the weapon between the fingers of his power fist, and shouldering Corvin to the ground. The inquisitor rolled, letting the momentum take the sting from the blow.

  “You have uncovered a secret.” Appollus advanced on him. “Our secret.” The Chaplain let the haft of his crozius slide down his hand until the flanged head hung a few inches from the floor. “And like all secrets, its knowing comes with a price.”

  “It is you who shall pay the price.” Corvin unsheathed his sword, energy arcing along its blade. “I have summoned my warriors. We will commandeer this vessel, and you and your kind shall answer for your perfidy.”

  “Is that so?” Appollus growled in contempt as the inquisitor retreated. He reached out to tap a pict-viewer on the wall.

  ++Recorder 10A9: Bay 17++

  Harahel tore his eviscerator from a shield-warrior’s chest, the weapon’s teeth churning his torso to red mist. The giant Flesh Tearer reversed the grip, driving his blade through the back of a prone figure clad in golden armour. The rest of the Inquisitorial warband lay dead at his feet, now unrecognisable as anything more than a pile of orphaned limbs.

  ++10A9: Segment Ends++

  Disbelief held Corvin’s tongue.

  Appollus grinned.

  “You are alone, inquisitor.”

  “No, traitor, I am never alone. The Emperor stands by my side.” Corvin’s blade flashed towards Appollus’s throat.

  The Chaplain slipped the blow, smashing his crozius into Corvin’s breastplate. The inquisitor flipped backwards, his armour cracking under the blow. “You have spent too long in the shadows. Judgement’s light has found you wanting.”

  Corvin tried to push himself to his feet, his chest alive with pain. He could barely breathe…

  Appollus yanked the inquisitor up by his hair. Holding him level with the soulless eyes of his helm, he drove a finger of his power fist into his chest, cracking ribs. The inquisitor screamed. “Twice you shot my brother. Are you as resilient as he?” The Chaplain stabbed a second crackling digit into Corvin, eliciting another tortured cry.

  “Emperor…” Corvin’s lips trembled.

  Appollus pulled the inquisitor closer, the visage of his skull helm filling Corvin’s world. “He is not listening to you.”

  Harsh light shone above Corvin. He blinked hard in an effort to shake the torpor from his eyes, forcing them to focus. He tried to reach for his face but his arm was pinned. Shock snapped him to alertness. He was strapped into some sort of chair, his arms and legs bound by thick clamps. He struggled against the restraints, crying out as pain stabbed through his chest. His ribs were broken.

  “The restraints are for your own protection.”

  The Chaplain. Corvin remembered the skull helm. “You go too far, release me or—” The inquisitor’s jaw cracked as something struck it. His vision swam, clearing to show the face of another Flesh Tearer looming over him.

  “Do you know who I am, inquisitor?”

  “Y-yes.” Corvin stuttered, the granite face of Gabriel Seth unmistakable.

  “You came here seeking truth, inquisitor.” Seth gestured to Corvin’s right. “Let us show you our truth.”

  Beside Corvin, strapped to another chair, was a black-armoured Flesh Tearer, his armour daubed in red saltires.

  At Seth’s gesture, Balthiel removed his gauntlets. He stepped between the two chairs. Placing a hand on the forehead of the Death Company marine, he turned to Corvin.

  “No! No! Wait, no!”

  Balthiel ignored the inquisitor’s pleading and completed the psychic union.

  “A cowardly mind is a weak mind. This will not take long.” The Librarian reached out with his gifts. The Death Company marine’s mind was incandescent. His anger burned, a pyre that called to Balthiel. He dove into the flames, until they surrounded him, shuddering at the power in the warrior’s blood. The rage was absolute. The flames licked at his armour, trying to find a way to his flesh. The wards inscribed on Balthiel’s battle-plate held, glowing as they turned aside the fire’s advance. He pushed down to the kindling that had given the fire life. Scooping up a pile of embers in his palm, he sought the inquisitor’s mind. It hid beneath layers of disguises and barriers. Corvin was well prepared, but Balthiel would not be deterred. He tore through the inquisitor’s mental defences with a savagery that would have killed an untrained mind, burrowing down past Corvin’s fears to his very essence. There, among the winds of the inquisitor’s soul, Balthiel let the embers fall from his hand.

  Corvin screamed. His cry became a guttural roar as the rage overtook him. Blood rushed to his muscles, which began to convulse as adrenaline saturated his system. He would tear free from his restraints, kill Seth, wear his skin like a cloak, crush his bones to powder.

  “Die!” Corvin growled, thrashing in the chair. Blood ran from his mouth as he bit off his tongue, one of his legs broke with a sickening snap as he tried to free himself.

  “Enough.”

  Seth ordered Balthiel to end Corvin’s torment, and close the psychic conduit he had created. After it was done, the inquisitor continued to spasm, his teeth rattling as he went limp in the chair. The effort of communion had taken a huge toll on Balthiel, who dropped to one knee breathing hard.

  Seth rested a hand on the Librarian’s pauldron “Return to your cell, brother. Rest.”

  “Yes, lord.” Balthiel nodded and left the room.

  “Watch him,” Seth voxed Appollus on a closed channel. The Chaplain dipped his head in acknowledgment and went after the Librarian.

  Tears streamed from Corvin’s eyes as he sobbed between laboured breaths. His body trembled. Seth knelt down next to him, his voice little more than a whisper. “And you would dare call us traitors. We who channel this anger, this curse, each and every moment in which our hearts pump our father’s blood through our veins. We who endure this torment and yet stand ready to fight for humanity. You. You who cannot handle our pain for a heartbeat dare question our loyalty.” Seth stood, snapping the restraints from their housings. “Leave and pray to the Emperor that you never cross my path again.”

  Inquisitor Corvin Herrold lay among the corpses of his warband, thankful the shuttle’s pilot had been spared. The inquisitor couldn’t stand, let alone steer the craft. His nervous system was shot and his muscles were shivering from withdrawal as the
remains of the rage left him. Sweating with effort, he propped himself up. The symbol of the Inquisition stared accusingly at him as he adjusted the ring on his finger.

  Who am I?

  Tears soaked his cheeks as he searched for an answer. Grief pushed him to remove the ring from his finger and toss it away. He looked to the ceiling; the galaxy stared down at him through the translucent hull as they edged away from the Victus. No stars shone. Yet the darkness of the void was as a beacon of light compared to what he’d felt living inside the Flesh Tearers’ souls.

  “Emperor save us.”

  Snow clung to the winding path, making the rock slick and treacherous, but the dwarf rangers marched with sure strides that could easily outpace the six riders following them. Seven of the mountain folk, each clad in dulled mail and tight-wrapped cloaks of dappled grey and brown, led the way along the steep-sided gully as it snaked deeper into the towering cliffs of the Grey Mountains.

  The rangers were heavily bearded, and what little of their skin was visible was nut-brown and gnarled like weath­ered bark. They carried heavy wooden crossbows over their shoulders, and a slender-hafted axe was strapped to each warrior’s thigh.

  Sigmar rode at the head of the horsemen, weary and saddle sore, but grateful to have met these pathfinders. His horse tossed its mane, and Sigmar patted its sweat-lathered flanks. Taalhorsa was near the end of his endurance, for he not only bore Sigmar’s weight, but that of the Norsii warlock, Bransùil.

  The raven-cloaked warlock had said little on the ride from Glacier Lake, for his every word was treated with suspicion and hostility. As a man of the northern tribes that Sigmar had driven from the Empire, he was not to be trusted, and his unearthly powers only made it easier to despise him.

  “Was it wise to keep to the mountains?” asked Bransùil, his tone laced with implied criticism.

  “No one understands stone like dwarfs, but Alaric says that these rangers know these peaks and their secret paths better than anyone,” replied Sigmar.

  “But where do those paths lead, friend Sigmar? Many paths are secret, and some are secret to protect the unwary from walking into danger.”

  Sigmar said nothing, but Bransùil’s words lodged like a splinter.

  He put the misshapen warlock’s warning from his thoughts and looked over his shoulder at the few warriors who rode with him back to Reikdorf. Cuthwin and Wenyld swayed wearily in their saddles, with arms dangling limply in their laps. Leodan grimaced with every stumbled step his exhausted horse took, and the rags covering the deep slash in his chest were stained red with blood.

  Teon rode alongside Gorseth, his wounded friend lashed to a cross of lance hafts tied to the saddle of his horse. The lad had taken a fearful blow from the axe of a living dead champion of the Dark Gods, and the wound was beyond their skill to treat.

  Marching just ahead of Sigmar, Alaric of Karaz-a-Karak led a solemn group of armoured dwarfs in strict order. Though there was little obvious to distinguish his dwarfs from the rangers, Sigmar sensed a hierarchy at work that he did not understand. Though Alaric was clearly much older than these rangers, a fact that—as far as Sigmar’s understanding of dwarf culture went—should have accorded him great respect, the runesmith had deferred to the leader of the rangers, and consented to be guided.

  Seven nights had passed since their defeat of Krell, and the journey home was, if anything, proving to be even harder than the hunt. Food was running low and though there was a plentiful supply of fresh snow to drink, only Cuthwin had a bow and even he was struggling to catch enough wild creatures to feed them all. Bransùil had used his powers to bring down a mountain stag, but no one was prepared to eat the flesh of a beast slain in such a fashion.

  “Ulric’s bones, how much farther is it?” asked Wenyld for what felt like the hundredth time since the sun had passed its zenith. “I thought these dwarfs knew a short cut.”

  “These dwarfs know the mountain paths better than you know your own manhood,” said Alaric with a gruff bark of annoyance. “So curb your whingeing. The entrance to a dwarf hold is a secret thing, not meant for manling eyes. The road to Karak Izor is no exception.”

  “This is a road?” said Wenyld. “I’ve seen better tracks through the swamps of Marburg.”

  “Hold your tongue, Wenyld,” ordered Sigmar.

  “Perhaps the manling would be happier making his own way home?” asked the lead ranger, without looking back. Though he had not raised his voice above a whisper, every one of the riders could hear his voice perfectly. This was the first time he had deigned to speak in the language of men since they had met him four days ago.

  “Do not shame me, boy,” hissed Alaric, and Sigmar saw the runesmith’s anger in the clicking flexing of his metallic hand. “These are Stromhelm’s rangers, and I’ll not have it said that manlings I have vouched for have the manners of greenskins.”

  Wenyld’s back stiffened and Sigmar saw he understood the seriousness of Alaric’s words.

  “Apologies, Master Alaric,” said Wenyld. “I am weary and did not think before speaking.”

  “Aye, well you manlings seldom do,” said Alaric. “It’s what brings you such woe.”

  The riders and dwarfs passed another hour in silence, and the path through the mountain gradually widened until the hard-packed earth beneath the horses’ iron-shod hooves became rune-stamped flagstones. Sigmar saw a pair of towering statues ahead, dwarf warriors in full battledress, with axes held out to the side forming an archway beneath which they would soon ride.

  The rangers passed under the archway, and Sigmar reined in his horse, allowing Leodan, Cuthwin and Wenyld to ride ahead. Teon drew alongside him, and Sigmar’s heart sank to his boots anew at the sight of the grievous wound in Gorseth’s shoulder. The lad’s skin was ashen, glistening with sweat despite the icy air this high in the mountains. His saddle was sticky with blood.

  “I fear he won’t live to see Reikdorf, sire,” said Teon, wiping away the tears streaking his young cheeks.

  “He’s a strong one, lad,” said Sigmar. “He’s made it this far, he can make it a little longer.”

  Teon looked at the rearing statues, as though seeing them for the first time.

  “And they can heal him here?” asked Teon, suddenly look­ing very young to Sigmar’s eyes.

  Sigmar did not want to lie to Teon, but nor did he wish to crush what little hope he had left, and said, “The mountain folk are masters of many things, and I do not believe they will be any less skilled in the healing arts.”

  The anguish in Teon’s face transformed into boyish excite­ment, and he placed a light hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “You hear that, Gor?” he said. “We’re at an actual dwarf hold in the mountains, can you believe it?”

  Sigmar led them through the archway onto a wide road that followed an arrow-straight course towards a mighty portal of seasoned timbers and age-blackened iron set into the flank of the mountain. Great images of helmed warrior gods were carved into the wood, and squat drum towers with ramparts that glittered with axe blades flanked the enormous gateway. The sun was setting behind the great peak, bathing the rocks in a ruddy copper hue.

  The rangers were already halfway towards the gate, with Alaric’s dwarfs eagerly following behind. Sigmar’s riders awaited his arrival, and he saw their relief that they had finally reached a place of safety after so long in hostile terrain.

  “So this is a dwarf hold?” said Leodan. “Doesn’t look very inviting.”

  “Hold your tongue,” said Sigmar, though he also sensed the unwelcome air that hung over the mountains. This was a place where outsiders were normally met with hails of crossbow bolts and dwarf blades. Alaric had vouched for them, and the honour in which the runesmith was held was the only reason they had been allowed this far.

  How long that goodwill lasted would be entirely depend­ent on their actions here.

  “We are guests here,” said Sigmar, with all the authority that had made him Emperor. “Master Alaric has gi
ven his oath that we are men of honour, so none of you are to act out of turn or you’ll have me to answer to.”

  His warriors nodded, but Sigmar wasn’t done.

  “Understand this,” he said. “We are not in the lands of men now, and if any of us gives the mountain folk offence, none of us will live to see our homes again. Do you understand? I want your oaths.”

  Each man nodded solemnly, even the warlock riding with Sigmar.

  Satisfied, Sigmar rode for the gates of Karak Izor.

  “And here was I thinking fighting Krell would be the dan­gerous part of this hunt,” said Leodan.

  The interior of the dwarf hold was no less impressive than the colossal gates that afforded entry to the subterranean fortress. A vast entrance hall, fortified more stoutly than the soaring crag of Middenheim, was filled with warriors, five hundred at least, all clad in shimmering hauberks of scaled iron and overlapping plates that shone too brightly to be anything other than gromril, the legendary metal of the dwarfs.

  A vaulted roof of shimmering gemstones and gold arched above the riders, and each coffered panel glittered like star­light. Vast columns of carved stone, at least fifteen paces in diameter, soared to the roof, marching off into the distance in serried ranks. The scale of the entrance took Sigmar’s breath away. Great fire bowls hanging on enormous chains suspended from the roof bathed the great entrance in a flickering, warm light, and Sigmar took comfort in the smell of hard rock and deep earth.

  A stout dwarf in a red cloak and ornately fashioned mail that glittered like snowfall in the dawn was borne upon a shield carried on the shoulders of four masked warriors. His braided hair and be-ringed beard were red like molten copper, his features no less so, and he carried a foaming tankard of beer that reeked of mature hops. A heavy ham­mer was carried alongside him by a warrior to his right, while another to his left hefted a heavy barrel of ale on one shoulder.

  Sigmar dismounted and nodded to his warriors to do the same. Teon, Cuthwin and Wenyld released Gorseth from the lance hafts tied to his saddle and laid him out on the mosaic floor, a great circle of copper in which were ren­dered swathes of runic text. Gorseth groaned in delirious pain, but that at least was a sign he still lived.