The Outcast Dead by Graham McNeill
They were swathed in furs, leather straps and plates of steel beaten into the semblance of armour. Two wore spiked helmets, one carried a vicious, flanged mace of pig iron, while another carried a bulky gun with a flared barrel and lengths of copper piping running along the barrel to a sparking cylinder filled with tiny arcs of lightning. Swirling tattoos writhed on the muscles of their beefy arms, and each man bore a jagged brand of a lightning bolt above his right eye.
‘Babu Dhakal’s men,’ hissed Roxanne, but Palladis waved her to silence.
He stepped into the central aisle, his hands held up before him.
‘Please,’ he began. ‘This is a place of peace and solemnity.’
‘Not any more,’ said a broad-shouldered figure, entering the building behind his vanguard. He towered over the seven dangerous men, making them look small in comparison. Crossed bandoliers of knives made an X on his chest, and a trio of jangling meat hooks hung from his belt next to a holster containing a wide pistol that was surely too heavy for any normal man to fire without losing his arm to recoil. Barbed iron torqs encircled his biceps, making the pulsing veins throb like writhing snakes beneath the skin.
The man’s flesh was emblazoned with the tattooist’s art, myriad representations of lightning bolts, hammers and winged raptors. What little of his natural skin tone remained was the unhealthy pallor of a corpse, and a thin line of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.
But it was the man’s eyes that told Palladis who had come for retribution. Pupils so fine they were little more than black dots in a sea of petechial haemorrhages, the man’s eyes were literally red with blood.
‘Ghota,’ said Palladis.
ATHENA ROSE THROUGH the central spine of the Whispering Tower, carried aloft on the double helix of gravity-defiant particles. It made her skin itch abominably, and the scar tissue that capped her amputated thighs throbbed painfully in the flux. Why the Whispering Tower’s builders had thought a pneumatic lift was unnecessary was a constant mystery, and she never failed to curse them whenever she was forced to move vertically through its structure.
She badly needed to see Mistress Sarashina, and rose through the levels of the tower towards the upper wing of the Oneirocritica Alchera Mundi, the great dream library of the City of Sight. A stack of papers and dream logs rested in her lap, a volatile record of her latest flight into the Immaterium that required a second interpretation. No one had a better understanding of Vatic prognostication than Aniq Sarashina, and if anyone could provide clarification of her latest vision, it would be her.
At last the stream of particles came to a diffuse end, and she used her manipulator arm to work the controls of her chair. It lurched as one repulsor field was exchanged for another, and Athena winced as the drum-taut tissue of her ravaged limbs pulled tight.
Passing through the arched entrance of the library, Athena nodded to the detachment of Black Sentinels stationed by the heavily armoured doors. She felt the humming machine spirits set into the arch cast their unfeeling eyes over her, ensuring she brought nothing forbidden into the library.
Towering shelves, rearing hundreds of metres into the air filled this section of the Oneirocritica Alchera Mundi, groaning stacks radiating from the central hub filled with interpretive texts, dream diaries, vision logs and the many books of common astropathic imagery. Every vision received and sent from the City of Sight was here, a complete record of communication that passed between Terra and the wider galaxy.
Scores of hunched astropaths drifted through the stacks like green ghosts, seeking clarification of a vision, while elder telepaths added freshly approved symbols to the ever-growing library. Every addition to the library was ratified by Artemeidons Yun, the Custodian of this invaluable repository, and Athena saw the corpulent old telepath shuffling through the stacks with a gaggle of bobbing lumen globes and harried aides following in his wake.
Athena circled the hub until she sensed Sarashina’s presence in the section devoted to elemental symbolism in visions. She floated towards Sarashina, and her former tutor looked up as Athena approached. Though astropaths lacked traditional visual acuity, their blindsight allowed them to perceive the world around them just as well as sighted individuals.
‘Athena,’ said Sarashina with a smile of genuine warmth. ‘How are you?’
‘Pained and tired,’ said Athena. ‘Is there any other way for an astropath to feel?’
Sarashina nodded in understanding. Athena caught the brief flare of sympathetic regret, and swallowed her anger at Sarashina’s pity.
‘Have you come to talk to me about Kai Zulane?’ asked Sarashina, ignoring Athena’s brusque tone.
‘No, though Throne knows he is damaged.’
‘Beyond repair?’
‘Hard to say for sure,’ said Athena. ‘There’s a lot of aversion in him, and he’s psi-sick because of it, but I think I can bring him back.’
‘So if you are not here to talk about Kai, what else is troubling you?’
‘I had a precept concerning the X Legion,’ said Athena. ‘Right after I saw Zulane.’
Sarashina gestured to the end of the stack furthest away from the hub, where numerous reading tables and data-engines were spread along the curved inner face of the tower. Sensing Athena’s unease, Sarashina picked an empty table far from astropaths studying the touch-script books and manuscripts.
Athena floated behind Sarashina and deposited her dream logs on the table.
‘This precept,’ asked Sarashina. ‘Have you logged it with the Conduit?’
‘Not yet, I wanted to speak to you first.’
‘Very well, but log it immediately after we speak. You know the purpose of the X Legion’s expedition?’
‘Of course,’ said Athena. ‘And that’s what scares the crap out of me, because I don’t think it’s a true precept.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I don’t think it’s a vision of the future. I think it’s happening right now.’
‘Tell me what you saw,’ said Sarashina. ‘Leave nothing out.’
‘I was on a sun-parched desert when I saw an obsidian statue rise from the sands, a muscular figure clad in a breastplate of burnished iron and chained to a rock. The statue’s fists were encased in silver, and sitting on one of them was an amber-eyed falcon with ocean-green plumage and a hooked beak.’
‘The statue is obvious enough,’ said Sarashina. ‘Prometheus.’
Athena nodded. A vision of the Titan of ancient myth who signified belief in humanity even over divine decree was a common visual metaphor used by astropaths to represent the primarchs. The silver of the statue’s gauntlets was the final confirmation of this one’s identity.
‘Yes, Ferrus Manus,’ said Athena. ‘Primarch of the Iron Hands.’
‘So what happened in this vision?’
‘A shadow fell across the sun, and I looked up to see darkness eclipsing the face of its brightness until it resembled a world of black, granular sand. It’s a new symbol, but it’s one I’ve seen a lot of recently.’
‘Isstvan V,’ said Sarashina.
Athena nodded. ‘No sooner had the sun gone black than the statue of Prometheus pulled against the chains holding it fast to the rock. The falcon took to the air as the metal links shattered, and a spear of fire appeared in the giant’s fist. The statue surged forward and cast the spear into the heart of the black sun, and the tip punched into its heart in a shower of blazing sparks.’
‘That bodes well for Lord Dorn’s fleet,’ noted Sarashina.
‘I’m not finished yet,’ said Athena.
She took a deep breath before continuing. ‘Even as the statue slew the sun with its spear cast, I saw it had left much of its inner substance behind. Chunks of obsidian remained stuck to the rock, and I knew the giant had struck prematurely, without his full weight behind the blow. Then the statue sank beneath the sand, and the falcon flew back to the rock. It swallowed the chunks of obsidian and then took to the air with a caw of triumph.’
<
‘That’s everything,’ agreed Athena, tapping her dream records. ‘I checked my Oneirocritica and it makes for uncomfortable reading.’
Sarashina extended her hands, nodding in agreement as her fingers danced over the raised words and letters.
‘Ferrus Manus always was impetuous,’ she said. ‘He races ahead of his brothers to Isstvan V to deliver the death blow to the rebels, while leaving much of his force behind.’
‘Yes, but it’s the hawk with the amber eyes that concerns me,’ said Athena.
‘The importance of the falcon is paramount,’ agreed Sarashina. ‘Its obvious implication is troubling. What elements Ferrus Manus leaves behind will be devoured. What other interpretation do you give the falcon?’
‘It’s a symbol of war and victory in most cultures.’
‘Which, in itself, is not troublesome, so what gives you cause for concern?’
‘This,’ said Athena, opening her oldest Oneirocritica with her manipulator arm and turning it around. As Sarashina’s fingers slipped easily over the pages, her serene expression turned to a frown as the words imprinted on the pages went on.
‘This is ancient belief,’ said Sarashina.
‘I know. Many of the gods worshipped by these extinct cultures displayed hawks as symbols of their battle prowess, which just confirms the more obvious symbolism. But I remembered the text of a rubbing taken from a marble sculpture uncovered by the Conservatory only a year ago in the rubble of that hive that collapsed in Nordafrik.’
‘Kairos,’ said Sarashina with a shudder. ‘I felt its fall. Six million souls buried under the sands. Terrible.’
Athena had been aboard Lemurya, one of the great orbital plates circling Terra, when Kairos hive sank into the desert, but she had felt the aetheric aftershock of its doom like a tidal wave of fear and pain. An empathic shudder of grief pulsed from Sarashina’s aura.
‘The hive’s fall exposed a series of tomb-complexes further west, and among the mortuary carvings were hawks. It’s said that the Gyptians considered the hawk to be a perfect symbol of victory, though they viewed it as a struggle between opposing elemental forces, especially the spiritual over the corrupt, as opposed to physical victory.’
‘And how does that fit within your precept?’ asked Sarashina.
‘I’m getting to that,’ said Athena, pushing a sheet of paper towards her. ‘This is the text of a scroll I copied a few years ago from a deteriorating data-coil recovered from the ruins of Neoalexandria. It’s just a list, a pantheon of old gods, but one name in particular stuck out. Taken together with the amber eyes and the colouring of the hawk’s plumage…’
‘Horus,’ said Sarashina as her finger stopped halfway down the list.
‘Could the hawk with the amber eyes represent the Warmaster and his rebels?’
‘Pass this to the Conduit,’ said Sarashina. ‘Now!’
‘PLEASE,’ SAID PALLADIS. ‘Don’t hurt these people, they have already been through enough.’
Ghota took a step into the temple, his heavy, hobnailed boots sounding like gunshots as he crushed glass and rock beneath them. He swept his gaze around the terrified throng, finally settling on Roxanne. He smiled, and Palladis saw his teeth were steel fangs, triangular like a shark’s.
Ghota pointed at Roxanne. ‘Don’t care about others,’ he said. ‘Just want her.’
The man’s voice was impossibly deep, as though dragged unwillingly from some gravelled canyon in his gut. It sounded like grinding rocks, flat and curiously not echoing from the stone walls of the temple.
‘Look, I know there was some blood spilled, but your men attacked Roxanne,’ said Palladis. ‘She had every right to defend herself.’
Ghota’s head cocked to one side, as though this argument had never been put to him before. It amused him, and he laughed, or at least Palladis guessed that the sound of a mountain avalanche coming from his mouth was laughter.
‘She was trespassing,’ growled Ghota. ‘She needed to pay a toll, but she decided it didn’t apply to her. My men were enforcing the Babu’s law. She broke the law, now she has to pay. It’s simple. Either she comes with me or I kill everyone in here.’
Palladis fought down his rising tension. All it would take would be one person to panic, and this temple would become a charnel house. Maya sheltered her two boys, while Estaben had his eyes closed and muttered something inaudible with his hands clasped before him. Roxanne sat with her head bowed, and Palladis felt her fear hit him like a blow.
So easy to forget how different she is…
He took a step towards Ghota, but the man raised his hand and shook his head.
‘You’re fine where you are,’ said Ghota, ‘but I can see you’re hesitating, trying to think if there’s some way you can talk your way out of this. You can’t. You’re also thinking if there’s any way the boksi girl can do what she did to the men she killed. She might be able to kill a couple of them, but it won’t work on me. And if she tries it I’ll make sure she doesn’t die for weeks. I know exactly how fragile the human body is, and I promise you that she’ll suffer. Agonisingly. You know me, and you know I mean what I say.’
‘Yes, Ghota,’ said Palladis. ‘I know you, and trust me, I believe every word you say.’
‘Then hand her over, and we’ll be gone.’
Palladis sighed. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘You know what she is?’
‘I do.’
‘Stupid,’ said Ghota, drawing his heavy pistol with such swiftness that Palladis wasn’t sure what he’d seen until the deafening bang filled the chamber with noise. Everyone screamed, and went on screaming as they saw what the gunshot had done to Estaben.
It had destroyed him. Literally destroyed him.
The impact pulped his upper body, hurling it across the chamber and breaking it apart over the chest of the Vacant Angel. Ribbons of shredded meat drooled from the statue’s praying hands and sticky brain matter and fragments of skull decorated its featureless face.
Maya screamed and Roxanne threw herself to the floor. Weeping mourners huddled together in the pews, convinced they were soon to join their loved ones. Children screamed in fear and mothers let them cry. Roxanne looked up at Palladis and reached for the hem of her hood, but he shook his head.
Ghota flexed his wrist, and Palladis found himself looking down the enormous barrel of a weapon that could obliterate him. Coils of muzzle smoke drifted from the gun, and Palladis could smell the chemical reek of high-grade propellant. The dim light of the temple reflected from an eagle stamped on the pistol’s barrel.
‘You are next,’ said Ghota. ‘You’ll die and we’ll take the girl anyway.’
Palladis felt his body temperature drop suddenly, as though a nearby meat locker had just opened and gusted a breath of arctic air into the chamber. The hairs on his arms stood erect, and he shivered as though someone had just walked over his grave. Sweat beaded on his brow and though every one of his senses was telling him the chamber was warm, his body was shivering like it had on the nights he’d spent on the open plains of Nakhdjevan.
The sounds of frightened people faded into the background, and Palladis heard the snorting, wheezing emphysemic breath of something wet and rotten. Colour drained from the world and even Ghota’s colourful tattoos seemed dull and prosaic. The cold air bloated the chamber, a sudden swelling of icy breath that seemed to swirl around every living thing and caress it with a repulsively paternal touch.
Palladis watched as one of Ghota’s thugs stiffened, clutching his chest as though a giant fist had reached inside his ribcage and squeezed his heart. The man turned the colour of week-old snow and he collapsed into a pew, gasping for breath as his face twisted in a rictus mask of pain and terror.
Another man fell as though poleaxed and without the drama of his comrade. His face was pulled tight in a grimace of horror, but his body remained unmarked. Ghota snarled and aimed his pistol at Roxanne, but before he cou
Colour flooded back into the world, and Palladis threw himself to the side as Ghota’s pistol boomed with deafening thunder. Palladis didn’t see what he’d shot at, but heard a buzzing crackle as it hit something. More screaming sounded from the far end of the chamber, frantic, urgent and terrified. Palladis squirmed along the floor between the pews, knowing something terrible was happening, but with no idea what it was.
His breath misted before him, and he saw webs of frost forming on the back of the timber bench at his side. He flinched as Ghota fired again, roaring with an anger that was terrifying in its power. The sound of his rage went right through Palladis, penetrating to the marrow and leaving him sick and paralysed with terror.
No mortal warrior could vent such battle rage.
Pinned to the floor with terror, Palladis wrapped his hands over his head and tried to shut out the sounds of terrified screams. He kept his face pressed to the cold flagstones of the temple floor, taking icy air into his lungs with every terrified breath. The screaming seemed to go on without pause. Shrieks of terror and pain, overlaid with angry roars of thunderous defiance in a strange battle-cant that sounded like the fury of an ancient war god.
Palladis remained motionless until he felt a drop of cold water on the back of his neck. He looked up to see the frost on the back of the bench was melting. The freezing temperature had vanished as swiftly as it had arrived. He felt a hand touch his shoulder, and cried out, flailing his arms at his attacker.
‘Palladis, it’s me,’ said Roxanne. ‘It’s over, he’s gone.’
Palladis struggled to assimilate that information, but found it too unbelievable to process.
‘Gone?’ he said at last. ‘How? I mean, why?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Roxanne, peeking over the top of the bench.
‘Did you do it?’ asked Palladis, as a measure of his composure began to return. He pulled himself upright and risked a quick look over the top of the bench.
‘No,’ said Roxanne. ‘I swear I didn’t. Take a look. This isn’t anything I could have done.’