She Who Thirsts

Mandragore Carrion

MolotovKraken

MolotovKraken

Prophet
Featured
Apr 18, 2024
1,252
187
20250521_201814.jpg

Shouting suddenly boomed across the yard. An angry human voice followed by a deeper, more savage sound that set the hairs on my neck up. Lord Oberon Glaw, dressed in a cloak and body armour, slammed out of the building Dazzo had emerged from, striding across the landing yard. A second later, the huge, ghastly bulk of the Chaos Space Marine followed him, raging and cursing. Glaw wheeled and faced the giant monster, resuming his argument at thetop of his voice. For all his size, the lord of House Glaw was dwarfed by the vividly armoured blasphemy. The Traitor Marine had removed his helmet: his face was a white, powdered, lifeless mask of hate, with smears of gold dust and purple skin paint around the hollow eyes and a dry, lipless mouth full of pearl-inlaid teeth. His only vaguely human face seemed to have been sutured onto his skull, the exposed parts of which were machined gold. There was a terrible stink of cloying perfume and organic corruption. I could not imagine the courage – or insanity – that it took to face down a Chaos Space Marine in a furious argument. The wind was against us, and all we could hear was the violent snarl of the voices instead of actual words. Dazzo and Malahite quickly crossed to Glaw’s side, and most of the other guards and workers present cowered back. The wind changed a little. ‘…will not deny me any longer, you human filth!’ The awful voice of the Traitor Marine could suddenly be heard. ‘You will show me respect, Mandragore! Respect!’ Glaw yelled back, his voice powerful but seemingly frail against the roar of the Chaos warrior. The Marine bellowed something else that ended in ‘…slay you all and finish this work myself! My masters await, and they await the perfect completion of this task! They will not idle their time while you vermin dawdle and slacken!’ ‘You will abide by our pact! You will keep to our agreement!’ I realised I had almost become hypnotised.

Staring at the monstrous, raging figure, drawn to him by his power and sheer horror, my eyes had lingered too long on the obscene runic carvings that edged the joints of his armour, the insane sigils that decorated his chest plate. I was entranced, captivated by the golden chains that dressed his luridly painted armour, the gems and exquisite filigree covering his armour plate, the translucent silk of his cloak, and the words, the alien, abominable words, inscribed upon his form, twitching and seething with secrets older then time… secrets, promises, lies… I forced myself not to look. Soul-destroying madness lay in the marks and brands of Chaos if one looked too long. Mandragore shrieked in fury and raised a massive gloved fist, spiked with rusty blades, to smash Lord Glaw.The blow didn’t fall. I started, as if slapped, as a burst of psychic power rippled across the concourse. Mandragore stepped back a pace. Dazzo moved towards him. Smaller than Glaw or Locke, Dazzo seemed even more insignificant next to the monster, but with each step he took, the Chaos Marine moved backwards. He didn’t speak, but I could hear his voice in my head. The presence and the words were so foul I barely managed not to vomit. ‘Mandragore Carrion, son of Fulgrim, worthy of Slaanesh, champion of the Emperor’s Children, killer of the living, defiler of the dead, keeper of secrets – your presence here honours us, and we celebrate our pact with your fellowship… but you will not seek to harm us. Never raise your hand to us again. Never.’ Dazzo was simply the most potent psyker I had ever encountered. With his mind alone, he had forced down one of the vilest of the traitors, a Space Marine sworn to the corrupt service of Chaos. Mandragore turned away, and strode off across the compound. I saw now how Lord Glaw wilted from the confrontation, his bravado spent. Many of the workers present were weeping with the trauma of the exchange, and two of the guards were throwing up. Shaking, I looked round at my companions. Fischig was ashen-faced and trembling, his eyes closed. Rhizor had curled up in a ball in the ashy mud, his back against the wall. Bequin had vanished.
 
Last edited:
I pushed him into an old stone outbuilding. I guessed it had once been a wash-house in North Qualm’s more rural heyday. Bequin was cowering in a corner, filthy, tearful. The sight of the Child of the Emperor Mandragore had sent her fleeing in blind panic. Like me, she had made the mistake of looking at the runes and marks on his foul, dazzling armour. Unlike me, she hadn’t had the sense to look away. She couldn’t speak. She barely registered us. But we were back inside her muzzling aura and out of Dazzo’s clutches for the moment. ‘What now?’ asked Fischig. ‘They’ll regroup quickly enough.’ ‘Midas is coming. We have to get back to the landing yard. It’s the only area big enough for him to set down in.’ Fischig looked at me as if I was mad. ‘He’s going to fly into this? He’ll be killed! And even if he does pick us up, they’ll launch interceptors from the fleet. They’ll launch them the moment he powers up for take off!’ ‘It’ll be tight,’ I admitted. We dragged Bequin with us and moved out of the derelict wash-house. Outside, the settlement was still swathed in ash lifted by the blast. Fierce fires glowed in the smoke. Voices screamed orders and cygnids bayed. There was a deeper, furious bellowing too. I had a nasty feeling it was the Chaos Marine
 
Then I saw Mandragore, over to the right of the yard, charging towards us with a baleful howl. ‘Back inside! Inside!’ I yelled and the three of us tumbled back in through the door. The outer wall of the building didn’t stop the Chaos-beast. Neither did the hatch. Ceramite and steel shod fists tore the lightweight metal apart, twisted adamite support beams, punctured plastic panels like paper. Mandragore’s baying wail preceded him, shaking us to the core. Bequin screamed. The vilely misnamed Child of the Emperor exploded through the end wall of the annexe, white lips drawn back around pearl teeth as he hurled out noise from his augmented torso. The boltgun in his fist was enormous. ‘Not a step closer!’ I yelled. With one hand, I held the primed grenade up so he could see it. He laughed, a deep, booming chuckle of contempt. ‘I mean it,’ I added and kicked the crate at my feet. It was laden with plastic wrapped tablets from the mine. ‘One second fuse. Another step and all this will be gone.’ He faltered. Lord Glaw and several guards appeared through the shredded wall behind him. ‘For pity’s sake, do as he says!’ Glaw barked. With a growl, Mandragore lowered his boltgun. ‘Back off, Glaw! Back right off and take them with you!’ ‘You can’t hope to escape, inquisitor,’ said Glaw. ‘Back off!’Glaw waved his men back and retreated. Mandragore backed out slowly, a growling hiss rising from his throat. ‘Grab the crate!’ I told Fischig. He slung his stubber over his shoulder and did as he was told. We edged out into the smoky daylight. Fischig and I were side by side, and I held the grenade over the crate he was carrying. Bequin cowered behind us. In the yard, Glaw was ordering his men back. There were forty or more troops: guards, naval troopers, supervisors. I saw Dazzo, Malahite and the rogue captain Estrum among them. Mandragore did not back off as far as the others. He stayed to the right of us, his shimmering cloak drifting in the breeze, his armour gleaming. The growl continued to purr in his throat.
 
‘What now?’ he asked.What now indeed? We had the upper hand for a moment: they didn’t dare shoot or rush us, and Bequin was blocking Dazzo and any other psyker they had. ‘An answer or two,’ I suggested. ‘Eisenhorn!’ Fischig hissed. ‘An answer?’ laughed Glaw. Some of his men laughed too, and Mandragore rumbled a snigger. I noticed Dazzo and Malahite were both unamused.
 
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Just as you would not honour any deal struck with me. It is a sad but true fact that no commitment or agreement of honour can be made between us. Which is why this crate comes with me. We have no other surety.’ ‘We’re not here to offer you surety, flesh-blister,’ Mandragore said sonorously. ‘Only death. Or if you’re unlucky, pain and death.’ ‘You should keep him out of the negotiations,’ I told Glaw with a sideways nod at Mandragore. ‘We are leaving with the crate, because you will destroy us otherwise.’ ‘No,’ said Glaw. He stepped forward, pulling a lasgun from his coat. ‘You are tripping on your own smooth logic, inquisitor. If we are to lose thoseartefacts for ever, I’d rather it was here, with your deaths as consolation. If you try to leave with the crate, we will fire anyway and damn the consequences. Set them down and I will give you ten heartbeats to leave.’
 
I looked over at Bequin. She stood next to Fischig, and was bundled up in a heavy red gown with a grey shawl, and there was an expression of grim reluctance on her face. She’d found it all fun at first, a game, even in the face of danger at House Glaw. But Damask had changed things for her. The monster Mandragore. She knew it wasn’t a game anymore. She’d seen things that many – perhaps even most – citizens of the Imperium never see. Most lives are spent on safe worlds far from the touch of war and horror, and the obscenities that lurk out there in the darkest parts of the void are myths or rumours… if that. But now she knew. Perhaps it had changed her mind. Perhaps she didn’t want to be here any more. Perhaps she was now regretting jumping so eagerly for the offer I’d made her. I didn’t ask her. She’d tell me if she had to. We were all too committed now.
 
her hair so it would not interfere with the helmet seal. ‘Good hunting, inquisitor,’ crackled Maxilla from the Essene above us. ‘He’ll be down there, won’t he?’ asked Bequin, and I knew she was referring to Mandragore. ‘It’s likely. Him… and whatever this is all about.’ ‘Well, you heard what Pontius said,’ she replied. How could I not have? The Necroteuch.
 
‘They deployed us from the ships along this beach as an escort detail for the main party.’ ‘How many men?’ ‘Over a hundred naval security troopers, and three hundred or so of us guard.’ ‘Vehicles?’ ‘Speeders like you saw, and a pair of heavier personnel carriers for some crates of cargo and the main party.’ ‘What do you know of them?’ Jeruss shrugged. ‘Of the cargo, nothing. In the main party was the captain,and Lord Glaw of Gudrun. He’s a worthy nobleman from my homeworld.’ ‘I know him. Who else?’ ‘Some others too: a merchant, an ecclesiarch, and a great and terrible warrior that they tried to keep away from us regular troops.’ Mandragore, no doubt. And Dazzo and Locke. The core of Oberon Glaw’s cabal. ‘Then what?’ Jeruss pointed up the slopes in the dark, forbidding uplands. ‘We advanced into that. It seemed to me they knew where they were going. Things changed as we went further in. It got darker and warmer. And it was hard to negotiate the way, as if–’ ‘As if what?’ ‘We couldn’t judge distances. Sometimes it was like wading through hot wax, sometimes we could barely slow ourselves down. Some of the men panicked. We found polygons, like these on the beach.’
 
Shouts and noises of alarm came from some of the waiting men. Several turned and fled from the plateau, scrabbling, wailing. The nine saruthi clicked their way out into the open from the hoop, fanning out until they formed a semi-circular line facing Dazzo and Malahite. I saw Oberon Glaw, Gorgone Locke, Estrum and the monstrous form of Mandragore descend from the vehicles to join their comrades. I confess that I was, by then, as afraid as those with me. I have seen horror, and horror itself does not terrify me. Nor indeed was there anything horrific about these beings. Alien, yes, and as a puritan that was alarming. But objectively, they were impressive, striking creatures; assured, almost majestic
 
That simple detail made me laugh. My confidence returned, and with it, my resolve. I waved Fischig and the soldier, Twane, over to me, and then made certain that Bequin, Midas and Jeruss were sufficiently in control of their faculties to be left in charge. Jeruss and Twane needed some fierce cajoling. Bequin was already prepared, her weapons drawn. The sight of Mandragore had fired her will. ‘Wait for my signal,’ I told Midas. To Fischig I said, ‘Keep an eye on our friend here,’ meaning Twane.
 
I could hear Jeruss on the guard vox channel rallying his comrades, calling for them to turn on the Navy personnel. The naval security combat channel was riven with orders and countermands, squeals of rage and bellowed curses. I heard Oberon Glaw screaming for order, and the baying howl of Mandragore behind it all.
 
Two clattered forward suddenly, towards the bewildered trooper escort. Electric-blue discharges fizzled around the saruthi’s swaying heads and thenspat raking beams of ice-bright energy at their attackers. Two troopers were vaporised, their constituent matter boiling away in searing flashes of light. I caught sight of Mandragore. The brute had already killed one trooper in an attempt to curtail the mindless wildfire, but now the saruthi had fired on them, the troopers clearly felt justified in their action and redoubled their efforts. An alien beam sliced into Mandragore’s arm, and rage consumed him. He attacked the saruthi himself, wielding a massive chain-axe. I hoped they’d kill him
 
Abruptly, a rough, foul psychic force burst into my mind, breaking the spell. I began to turn, to look away from the opening book. That half-turn was just enough to stop me dying. I was felled by a monumental blow to the shoulder. As I dropped, the book spun helplessly from my yearning hand. The tiles underneath me were awash with blood. My blood. I rolled over as the next blow came. The screaming teeth of the chain axe missed me by a hair’s breadth and shattered the bloody tiles. Mandragore, bastard child of the Emperor. I scrambled backwards in blind panic. The stinking Chaos warrior was right on me, his lurid armour flecked with human blood and alien ichor. My dazed half-turn at the last moment had spoiled his first blow, but still the back plate of my naval trooper combat armour was shredded; the left shoulder guard was completely ripped away. The glancing shoulder wound was savage and deep. Blood gouted through torn flesh and armour, cascading down my left arm. Writhing backwards, I found my hands slipping on the blood-washed octagons. I lashed out with my mind. It was no match for his fearsome psychic capacity, but it was enough to put him off his swing. The shrieking chainblade of the axe sawed through the air over my ducking head. My fallen hell-gun was out of reach, and I doubted it would have made adent in the monster anyway. His baying face, its sutured-on skin stretching around the gaping jaws of his skull, was all I could see. My left arm was numb and useless. I threw myself to my feet, pulling my sword from my webbing. The device is a fine weapon, of the old kind. It has no material blade like other, cruder models I have seen. It is a hilt, twenty centimetres long, inlaid and wound with silver thread, enclosing a fusion cell that generates a metrelong blade of coherent light. The Provost of Inx himself blessed it for me, charging it to ‘protect our brother Eisenhorn always from the spawn of damnation’. I prayed now that he hadn’t been wasting his breath. I ignited the blade and fended away the next axe swing. Sparks and metal shrapnel flew from the clash, and the beast’s huge strength nearly struck it from my hand. I jumped back a pace or two from the next whistling bow.

My head was swimming. Was it the loss of blood or the after-effects of that seductive book? Mandragore was incandescent with fury now. I was proving to be annoyingly difficult to slay – for a mere mortal. I had a dread feeling it wouldn’t last. He rushed me again, towering over me, and I managed to deflect the force of the chain-axe. But immediately he brought the butt of the weapon’s long haft around and struck me in the chest, sending me flying. I actually left the ground and cleared several metres. I landed hard on my injured shoulder. The pain rendered me insensible for a second. That was all he needed. He crossed the blood-flecked tiles to me in two strides, the axe rising in the air as his growl rose in pitch. With a flailing motion, I kicked the Necroteuch towards him. It struck the toe of one great boot. ‘Don’t forget what you came for, abomination!’ I rasped out. Mandragore Carrion – son of Fulgrim, worthy of Slaanesh, champion of the Emperor’s Children, killer of the living, defiler of the dead, keeper of secrets – paused. With a hacking laugh, his soulless eyes never leaving me, he stooped for the book. ‘You counsel well, inquisitor, for… a…’ His fingers were around the Necroteuch, the metal-shod digits dwarfing it. His voice trailed away. Triumph faded from his hideous face; rage drainedaway; blood-lust dimmed. His mask of skin hung slack from its sutures. The light in his blood-rimmed eyes dulled. The Necroteuch sang through every fibre and shred of corrupted being, stealing from him all sense of the outside world. I stood, unsteadily, flexed my grip on the power sword, and sheared his head from his shoulders. Before it had even struck the ground, the spinning skull combusted and blazed white hot, dripping liquid flame onto the tiles. The fireball bounced and rolled, rocked over, and consumed itself in a ferocious, dirty fire that swiftly left nothing behind but blackened shards of skull in a smouldering scorch mark.

The body remained standing, burning from within the torso, shooting long tongues of sickly green flame up out of the neck cavity. A column of filthy black smoke rose into the still air. The gaudy robes and cloak quickly caught, and thick flames enfolded the headless, metal ruin. At the last moment, I struck off Mandragore’s fist with the sword’s bright blade, and the Necroteuch it clutched fell clear of the flames. I felt as though it was pleading with me to take it up again, to immerse myself again in the wonders it contained. Such wonders. I bent down, torn by duty. The thing should be destroyed, but it held such secrets! Could not the Inquisition, and the Imperium as a whole, benefit from the infinite truths it contained? Had I even the right to destroy something so priceless? The puritan part of me had no doubt. But another part abhorred the idea of wasting it. Knowledge is knowledge, surely? Evil stems from how knowledge is used. And such knowledge was here… Perhaps if I read a page or two, I could make a better decision. I shook my head to cast away the insidious thoughts. The noise of the battle came rushing back. I looked back across the plateau, beyond Mandragore’s upright, burning corpse and the sprawled body of Malahite. The last few pockets of fighting were playing out, and the great tiled platform was littered with dead and debris. Both carrier vehicles were ablaze. The saruthi had gone, taking even their corpses with them. It seemed to me the Gudrunites had overwhelmed the troopers by sheer numbers. Few figures were still standing, and I could see none of my companions.

His regal cloak torn and his face bloodied, Oberon Glaw strode towards me, a laspistol clenched in his right hand. ‘Throw that down, Glaw. It’s over.’ ‘For you, yes.’ He raised the weapon. A munitions canister on one of the burning carriers ignited and blew the armoured vehicle apart in a stunning conflagration. Flung out by the blast, broken armour plating and sections of track whizzed through the air like missiles. A chunk of trans-axle impaled Lord Glaw through the back of the head. He fell without a sound. I grabbed a piece of smoking hull plate, and scooped the Necroteuch up on it. I would heed no more of its soft enticements. I let it slide off the makeshift scoop into Mandragore’s upright corpse, so that it fell down through the open neck of the blazing armour into the furnace of the torso. The flames turned red, then darker still. The blaze grew more intense. Something without a mouth screamed.
 
‘Were they successful, Inquisitor Eisenhorn?’ the Space Marine asked suddenly, staring directly at me. ‘No, brother-captain, they were not. The effort was desperate and close run, but my force was able to spoil their contact with the xenos saruthi. The aliens were driven off, and most of the heretics’ advance guard, including Lord Glaw and a blasphemous child of the Emperor allied to his cause, were slain.’ ‘I read of this Mandragore in your report,’ said the Space Marine. ‘His presence was fundamental in the decision for my unit to accompany thisforce.’ ‘The Emperor’s Children, Terra damn their souls, clearly wanted the book for themselves. They had sent Mandragore to assist Glaw in its recovery. That beings such as they took it seriously confirms the truth of my story, I believe.’ The noble Space Marine nodded. ‘And Mandragore is dead, you say?’ ‘I killed him myself.’ The Deathwatch warrior sat back slightly, his brows rising gently in surprise. ‘Some heretics escaped your purge?’ Schongard asked. ‘Two key conspirators, brother. The trader, Gorgone Locke, who I believe was instrumental in forging the original contact between the saruthi and Glaw’s cabal. And an ecclesiarch named Dazzo, who I would see as the spiritual force behind their enterprise. They fled from the fight, rejoined the waiting elements of their fleet, and left this system.’
 
‘Because whatever their combat inexperience, they’ve seen a tetrascape. Those are the men I want at my side.’ Madorthene and Brytnoth exchanged glances, and the procurator shrugged. ‘As you wish.’ ‘As for the others, like I said, don’t stint on the training regime.’ ‘We won’t!’ he chuckled, mock-outraged at the idea. ‘The drill masters will work the regiments so hard, they’ll yearn for real battle.’ ‘I’m serious,’ I said. ‘Every man that deploys on to 56-Izar – the venerated Deathwatch included, Emperor bless them – should be ready to lose control of his senses, his judgment, his fortitude and even his basic mental faculties. They’re going to be hit hard, but in an insidious way. I don’t care if every man jack of them forgets his own mother’s name and wets himself, they must still know how to hold a line, fire and reload, adore the Emperor and respond to orders.’ ‘Succinctly put,’ Brytnoth said. ‘I will, of course, temper your proposals before I put them to my battle-brothers.’ ‘I don’t care what you tell them,’ I chuckled, ‘as long as you don’t let on who it came from.’ ‘Your anonymity is assured.’ He smiled. A wonder, that. I consider myselfone of the very few mortals to have made a Librarian of the Adeptus Astartes smile. To have seen a Librarian of the Adeptus Astartes smile even. Brytnoth pushed his slate and stylus aside and looked over at me with curiosity. ‘Mandragore,’ he said. ‘The bastard child of the Emperor? What of him?’ ‘I’m told you killed him yourself. In single combat. Quite a feat for one such as you – and I mean no disrespect.’ ‘No disrespect is taken.’ ‘How did you do it?’ he asked frankly. I told him. I kept it simple. Brytnoth made no reaction but Madorthene was quietly agog. ‘Brother-Captain Cynewolf will be fascinated,’ Brytnoth said. ‘I promised him I’d find out the details. He was dying to ask you about it, but he didn’t dare.’ Now that was funny.
 
Bequin had also been transmuted by experience in the months since I had first met her on Hubris. A hard, serious woman had replaced the scatty, selfish pleasure-girl from the Sun-dome, as if she had at last found a calling that suited her. She had certainly thrown herself into her new life with dedication and vigour. I considered the changes a distinct improvement. Many are called to the service of our beloved Emperor, and many are found wanting. Despite the ordeals, Alizebeth Bequin had proved herself. If there was a point at which her transformation could be identified, it was the plateau. The sight of Mandragore’s corpse had exorcised her fears.
 
Explosive flashes blew water ooze and vegetable matter up from the tanks, and the air became foggy with plant fibre and sappy moisture. There was an abrupt change in tone in the enemy fire. The boom of a bolter rang out over the crack and snipe of the laser weapons. I looked down the silver path in time to see Guilar jerk backwards as multiple bolter rounds struck his chest plate. With a cry of rage rather than pain, he went over, off the path, into the bubbling water of the tank behind us and vanished. Thrusting the heretic foot soldiers out of the way, his killer came down the pathway towards us. ‘Oh no!’ Bequin cried. ‘Please-by-the-Golden-Throne-no!’ Another of the Emperor’s Children, the brother if not the twin of foul Mandragore. His scintillating cloak blew out behind him, and his steel-shod hooves shook the path. He was bellowing like a bull auroch. His bolter spat and the Gudrunite beside me burst apart. The Children of the Emperor, shadowy sponsors of this entire enterprise, were here to protect their investment. Had they come, unbidden, after Mandragore’s death? Had Dazzo or Locke summoned them? I fired the bolter at him, joining the fusillade of desperate weapons blasts that Purge Two levelled in a frantic attempt to slow him down. Fear made the men forget the best of their training, and many of the shots were wild.He didn’t seem to feel those few that struck his armour. ‘Purge Two! This is Purge Two! The Children of the Emperor are here!’ I yelled into my vox.

I knew I would be dead in an instant. It was imperative that Fleet Command knew of this dire development. A black shape burst up from the dark water, cascading froth and ooze in all directions. Brother Guilar slammed into the Chaos Marine, wrenching him over, and they both fell thrashing into the adjacent tank. Something, probably the heretic’s bolter, fired repeatedly underwater and the side of the tank below the floating path splintered out in a rush of liquid. The soupy water flooded out, draining away into the gullies between the garden structures. As the fluid level dropped, the titanic combatants emerged, blackened with mire, wrestling and trading inhuman blows among the tangled roots and feeder tubes of the tank’s murky bottom. Ceramite-cased fists pounded into armour plates. Chips of plasteel flew from the impacts. The Chaos Marine’s vast paws clawed at Guilar, tearing at his visor and shoulder guards. Guilar drove him backwards, his feet churning in the shallow, thick water. They slammed in the bole of a cycad. The enemy grappled, getting a better grip, stabbing a jagged gauntlet spike through the armpit seal of the Deathwatch’s imperator armour. Guilar staggered, and as he fell back, a massive backhanded slap knocked him over and tore his helmet off. The Chaos Marine landed on the sprawling Guilar, tearing at his throat, driving fists like boulders into his face. There was a bang of weapon discharge and a flash. His face destroyed and his collapsed skull burning from the inside, the Chaos filth fell back into the swamp water. Guilar rose, unsteady, his storm bolter in his hand, blood pouring from the wounds in his face and neck. It was a formidable victory. Jeruss and his men cheered and whooped and then renewed their advance on the remaining heretics. The enemy, resolve lost, pulled back and vanished into the dense thickets of the gardens. Dripping, Guilar climbed back onto the path and looked down at me. ‘I’m glad you’re still with us, Brother Guilar,’ I said.
 
When we found the archpriest Dazzo, he was close to death. A battle of titanic proportions had taken place in the tetra scape where he lay. Thousands of dead lay on the tiled floor: Mirepoix infantry and heretic troops alike. Two Children of the Emperor and three Deathwatch were among the fallen. The tetrascape, by far the largest of any we had seen in the edifice, reached away beyond the curve of all human dimensions, and the jumbled corpses covered the endless floor into infinity. Dazzo lay at the foot of an asymmetrical block that rose from the tiles like a standing stone. His body was torn by gunshot wounds. Heldane sat nearby, his back to the great block, guarding the archpriest with anautopistol. Heldane’s torso was smirched in blood and his breathing was laboured. He saw us approach through the tetragate and lowered the gun weakly. ‘What happened here, Heldane?’ ‘A battle,’ he said, wheezing. ‘We came upon it as it was raging. When Inquisitor Endor saw this wretch, he drove us into the fight to reach him. It was a blur after that.’ ‘Where’s Endor?’ I asked, looking around, hoping I would not see his corpse among the dead. ‘Gone… gone after Locke.’
 
Top Bottom