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Blood of Martyrs. Book of Judgement. Daemon Hunter. Disciples of the Dark Gods. I think it was intended as a commentary on the political naivety of the usurper Kalisto Surena. He lowered his boots from the seat-back in front of him and turned sideways in his seat so he could glance up-cabin at Kanaed and down-cabin at Vertigon.
This is a simple business. Tortane has told us to come here, and do this thing. It is simple. It is a simple business. We serve at a distance. He sends us instructions that are simple, I agree. Go here.
Do this. Except, when there is such distance involved, and such simplicity of instruction, it is clear that Inquisitor Tortane expects some nuance from us. He began screwing the lens rings back into his augmetic socket, one by one. He expects us to act autonomously, to interpret his simple instruction and sophisticate our plans. He expects us to be his proxies here, to do in person, for him, what he is not here in person to do. Without looking at her, he held up a warning finger.
What part of that requires sophistication? He blink-whirred them once, and then released his harness and stood up. With a hand holding the ceiling rail, he edged down the aisle of the bumping dropship. Nothing is known about it. Indeed, virtually nothing is known about the entire system.
The Sleeping Fortress? But he sends us here, to this remote world, far, far out from the zone where the mythical fortress is said to orbit. We know one mysterious thing about this empty system, and it is not the thing our master the Inquisitor sends us to look at. Vertigon pointed directly at the jumping track of the glowing hololithic display.
We do not even know if it is a viable landing zone. He pointed at the screen again. Yet we treat this as the front door. Would Tortane expect us to be so literal, or would he expect us to think clearly and intelligently and perform this undertaking the way he would if he was here personally? They all looked at her. The voidborn was hunched in one of the seats recessed beneath the port-side underwing.
Her long legs were drawn up, knees to chin. Hessk decided to alter the drop route and set down on a headland three klicks from the coordinates, a headland that the auspex was able to resolve as clear and solid. As if aggrieved by this wanton diversion, the atmosphere trembled and turned into a violent storm.
Ribbons of lightning eight or nine kilometres long ripped through the thickening sky. Wind speeds topped nine hundred per hour. The clouds were like ink in water and the rain was like an iron wall. A thirty minute descent turned into a ninety minute hellride.
They lost through-put telemetry within fifteen minutes, and secondary power in twenty. A lightning strike sheared their hull armour and torched their number three engine. Even Hessk thought they were dead at that point. But they lived, though the ride that followed was brutal.
It was like being shaken in a tin box. Strapped into their arrestor seats, they held on. Dayglass put her head between her hands and sobbed.
The four of them headed down the slope, moving through the rain-swept thickets of fungus trees as they came down the headland. The ground was wet mulch underfoot. Rain beat at them. Their four, jerking stablights were the only light sources apart from the phantom strobe of the lightning.
Around them, the curious fungal trees creaked and groaned as they strained in the night wind. The trees were huge. The darkness was infinite. The four of them, and their four small light beams, were tiny.
Callan Hessk led the way. Impressively tall in his boots, he was a stone cold killer with a mind like a high-grade cogitator. He wore a long leather coat under his hooded weather-jacket, and heavy deck boots.
He had a face like a monolithic statue, and violet eyes. His grey hair had been crop cut with a buzzer. In return, he had served Tortane, and served him well, performing as his agent in the field. But they had never met. Tortane had never allowed that to be a possibility. As a consequence, Callan thought it was possible he might not like Faros Tortane. Behind Hessk came the savant, Zarn Vertigon. Vertigon was unusual for a savant. He was reasonably young and very robust.
Ex-Guard, he knew how to fight, and knew how to handle the ancient long las he kept slung in its slipcase over his shoulder. Hessk had seen him fight.
Zarn did it well. Hessk counted that as a plus. When he woke up, in a medicae station eighteen kilometres from the frontline, he discovered that, in the depths of his pain and injury, the hill had given him something. It had imparted a little of its ancient sentience to him. He understood things, things he had never understood before. He knew things Zarn Vertigon had instincts that left most men blinking.
The worst part was, his ability scared everyone, including Zarn himself. Dayglass, the voidborn psyker, followed Zarn, her long dress bedraggled by the rain. Tall and painfully slender, she carried no weapons, and her exquisitely large black mirror-eyes reflected the storm.
Her long black hair hung limp. Alia Kanaed brought up the rear, cradling her hell-rifle. She was muscular, tall and full-figured, her form strapped into a red leather bodyglove. Her face was a sculpture of cheekbones and jawline, forming piercing, pale blue eyes. Her hair was short and white. The djin blade slung between her shoulder blades in a bound scabbard whispered to itself. Night blackness continued to enfold them. Spent rain pattered out of the cupped leaves and fungal folds of the forest canopy far above them.
Their lights bobbed. The darkness had lengthened. There was a cold ozone smell, a sense of gloomy, damp space, a sense of the unseen.
Vertigon uncased his long las, loaded a cell, and moved ahead, the rifle braced over the crook of his left arm.