Alek Seander, Inquisitorial Guard sergeant for three years, speed-read the report Mischer had just handed him. Then he read it again just to be sure. He locked eyes with the other man.
"And this is accurate?"
"Sir, that's the most recent report from Croen and Vesarch."
Seander frowned and read the report one more time. It was ridiculous, implausible. But Croen and Vesarch were his two best recon and surveillance troopers. Croen had been the chief training officer of the Thirteenth Sosorian Night Raven Scout Corps, and Vesarch had served the Ninth Gewarii Fusiliers as an elite vox-officer. Between the two of them, there was very little they didn't know about stealth, surveillance work and reconnaissance. Seander trusted their judgement more than his. But this report was just� wrong.
A cultist coven thirty miles on the outskirts of the city of Saint Dianedes, in the grounds of an old summer house. Ritual sacrifices and magic. The air heavy with the Chaos stink. A man who shone with a baleful inner light. A giant block of polished black stone, in the shape of a prism. The report stated that Croen and Vesarch had both had violent nosebleeds and severe migraines after looking at the stone for only a couple of minutes.
All that wasn't so new to Seander. As an Inquisitorial Guard, often seconded to Inquisitors to provide well-trained and dependable support, he'd seen a lot in five years. He'd seen the horrors from The Beyond. He'd been so close to unholy artefacts and felt their unclean auras, he had literally sweated blood.
But the reason why they'd even got this report was the real puzzle.
Croen and Vesarch had been ordered to keep a close eye on High Cardinal Maviences. In a standard procedure report of Gydorious made some four months ago, Inquisitor Apollo had hinted that Maviences was acting somewhat suspiciously; long and mysterious conferences with the local tech-lord Magos Daedalus, pouring funds into a "secret project" of his, less and less time spent in council�
And now, this report, stating that Maviences was heading the coven, dressed in vivid colours, waving a long, elaborately carved staff above his head. His words had been barely audible to the two scouts, but they had heard enough.
Death to the stagnating Imperium. All is change. To deny change is to die. To embrace change is to live. Worship change. Worship the Prism. Worship the Infinite Serpent. Worship the Weaver of Fate. Worship Tzeentch.
Seander had little doubt of Maviences' abilities. The man was a highly skilled orator, with a genius mind, which Seander privately thought was odd for a cardinal. A zealous preacher and a cunning politician, Maviences had ruled Gydorious as high cardinal, a rank equal to planetary governor, for nine and a half years. He was popular with the public, possessing a dangerous charisma. It was difficult to believe he'd become just another cult leader.
But Croen and Vesarch were never wrong.
Seander got up from his desk and looked over at Mischer.
"Mischer."
"Sir?"
"Give Hiraq the wake-up call. Tell him to get his team prepped for a strike."
"Sir."
"I'm going to run this pass the boss, see what he wants to do. He'll probably want to move in and investigate."
"And if he doesn't, sir?"
"Unlikely."
"But what if he doesn't want to investigate, sir?"
"Then I'll start wondering why he's such a success."
"And you're certain of this?"
"My men are certain of it sir. And if they're certain, then so am I."
Inquisitor Irano Caseius Sabathitez raised his bleached-white eyebrows slightly, and turned his cobalt eyes back to the report.
"Well, sergeant, if you're certain� then very well."
Seander breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He'd thought Sabathitez would want to make a move on something this important. He wouldn't be living up to his reputation then.
Seander studied the Inquisitor- the young Inquisitor, the sergeant realised. Inquisitor Irano Caseius Sabathitez, Ordo Malleus Undine. Twenty-eight standard, and already somewhat of a legend. Sabathitez boasted a short but explosive and highly enviable record; at twenty, barely half a year after being promoted to Inquisitor rank, he'd hunted down and killed every member of the Brotherhood of Black Steel, a coven of cultist-terrorists who'd been planning to destroy, with devastating side-effects, the upper levels of Hive Ciallo on Nethemy. At twenty-two, he'd slain the infamous heretic Blanver Sierck before the man had completed the possession pact with a Chaos greater daemon and run amok in downtown Old Vivola on Xerean. For a year and a half, he had pursued a case that eventually revealed that the eight advisors of the Lord Undinus Rex, planetary ruler of the sub-sector's capital world, where all under daemonic influence and had been using Lord Undinus Rex as a mere puppet for their master's whims. At twenty-five, he'd destroyed a powerful Tzeentchian daemonhost and managed to bind the warp entity into a sword, a sword he now wielded.
Yes, the man was certainly a role-model of the Inquisition. He even looked the part. Six foot two, short spiked white hair, bright blue eyes, a handsome face and a lean, athletic figure, rounded off with a keen intellect and powerful psychic abilities.
But there was the undeniable air about him; an air of risk, of danger. Some Inquisitors, the rigid puritans, with their damned holier-than-thou attitude, had long labelled Sabathitez as a radical, and a heretic waiting to happen. Personally, Seander didn't give a flying grox-crap what those Inquisitors thought; he'd had the displeasure of working alongside a monodominant of the Ordo Hereticus a few years ago, one Inquisitor Magaro. The man, bluntly speaking, had been a blinkered zealot, ordering Seander's kill-team to fire not only upon the cultists they had been fighting, but also civilians, declaring that they had been corrupted by Chaos and were as good as damned.
Seander remembered Troopers Unnell and Wiklow refusing, point blank, with arguments that it simply wasn't humane. It wasn't that Unnell or Wiklow had been soft- you didn't become an Inquisitorial Guard by being sentimental- but the whole thing had just seemed so damn wrong.
Magaro hadn't hesitated. He'd put a manstopper round through both their heads without so much as a second thought, his excuse being that their sentiments made them weak, and "Chaos preys upon the weak. I have saved them from succumbing to the Darkness."
Seander didn't exactly like Sabathitez; he simply preferred him. Seander just didn't see what the big deal was. Yes, Sabathitez was probably a radical. Yes, Sabathitez was a psyker. Yes, Sabathitez had a freaking daemon sword. So what? Sabathitez's little gifts made them all a bit uneasy, but who cared? As long as he did his duty to the Emperor in whatever way he could, then how could he be a heretic? One wouldn't complain if one servant of the Emperor had a more powerful gun or a sharper sword than another, so why would they complain if another servant of the Emperor could create infernos from midair or boil the brain inside an enemy's skull?
"Sergeant?"
Sabathitez's voice shocked Seander from his reverie.
"Sir?"
"Is a team ready?"
"Sir, I've given the order for Corporal Hiraq to get his men prepped. Croen and Vesarch will rendezvous with you when you land."
"Excellent sergeant. If we need back-up, I'll give you the signal. Dismissed."
Sabathitez went to a nearby sword-case and withdrew his daemon sword; the essence of the Tzeentchian daemon Chaaz Ak'rahn was bound within. The blade was long and broad, the grip long enough so that the sword could be used one or two-handed. Sensing the touch of its master, the sword's edge burst into flame, tongues of blue, white and pink fire licking up the edges.
"Magnificent�" breathed Sabathitez, staring at the daemonic bastard sword as if it were a fine oil painting or if he were commenting on a particularly fine wine.
Seander turned before leaving the room.
"The Emperor protects, sir," he said.
Sabathitez's eyes didn't leave the sword. "Mmm, quite, quite�"
Seander met up with Hiraq in the main hangar. The outpost they were set up as their stage of operations was an old Guard complex, set out here in the wilderness for the purposes of sentry duty, general observation, extensive outdoor survival training and so forth. Since Gydorious hadn't been invaded for nearly a century and a half, most of these outposts were abandoned, rarely used anymore though kept in pristine order by servitors and regular maintenance crews. The outpost, built for a full platoon of Guard and their equipment and training gear, was more than big enough for twenty Inquisitorial Guard and a pair of Lumis-class ornithopter gunships and Capricorn APCs.
It would be a fifteen minute flight in the Lumis from the outpost to the co-ordinates Croen and Vesarch had provided, and Hiraq and his team were going in heavy. Nilas Hiraq, a young, grim-looking man with a surprisingly bawdy sense of humour, was buckling on his carapace gloves as Seander walked up to him. The corporal fumbled to salute, but Seander waved it aside; they were old friends and he didn't much care for formality.
"Nilas. Everything prepped?"
"Yeah, sure. The guys are all ready, just waiting for Jarena to warm up the bird," Hiraq said, nodding his head towards the Lumis outside on the helipad. As Seander watched idly, the twin top-mounted rotor blades started to rotate slowly as Jarena went through the 'copter's warm up sequences.
"Who's going in with you?" asked Seander.
"Ah, Pietr, Kavo, Epiam� y'know, the usual. Just us eight though; we're meeting up with Croen and Vesarch anyway."
Seander nodded. Pietr was a superb marksman, Kavo was dynamite with any kind of shotgun, and Epiam was quickly developing a reputation for being somewhat of a budding swordsman. Hiraq's team was good, better than most Inquisitorial Guard that Seander had seen in his time. He couldn't help but feel that a fire team of ten, a Lumis-class gunship and an Inquisitor was overkill against a few cultists. But then again, Seander had been Guard- both Imperial and Inquisitorial- long enough to know that it was better to overestimate than underestimate an enemy.
"Should be quite a party tonight," commented Hiraq, snapping the buckles of his gauntlets shut and picking up his full-face helmet, with tinted visor and Inquisitorial crest, from its resting place on a stack of crates behind him.
"Anything with the boss involved is usually a party," said Seander with a slight smirk.
"You've got that right," chuckled Hiraq before he put his helmet on, obscuring his face from view. He briefly made the sign of the aquila and clasped Seander's hand tightly in a warrior's handshake.
"Good hunting corporal."
They unclasped hands and Hiraq laughed lightly, his voice muffled by the tight confines of his helmet.
"Jealous, Alek?"
"What, that you're risking life and limb to take down some warp-crazed loonies?"
Hiraq nodded, flicking his helmet's comm-link on as he did. Seander couldn't help but smile.
"Of course I am, you stupid fragger. I'd kill for some field action again. But I've made my order; you're going in with the boss. And if you need backup, don't hesitate to vox us."
Hiraq snorted as he hefted his hellgun, making final checks.
"Shouldn't think we'll need our arses saved by you and the others," said Hiraq cockily, raising his hellgun to his shoulder and test-sighting through the heat-see scope. "I mean, it's only a few cultists and a big rock, right? And apparently Maviences himself? Psssh. Bring 'em on."
"That attitude's going to kill you one day, Nilas."
"That's the plan."
"Gentlemen!"
They both turned their heads towards the sound of a new voice. Standing in the hangar doorway, dressed in a long dark crimson leather coat and dark blue combat fatigues, a hellpistol tucked away in a hip-holster and the daemonic sword thrust into the scabbard on his back, Inquisitor Irano Caseius Sabathitez was ready. He gave a smile that sent a slight shiver down Seander's spine.
"Shall we get going? We have some heretical activity to cease."
Hiraq gave several shouted orders and his team bundled outside into the gunship. Before jumping in himself, Hiraq turned and gave Seander a quick thumbs-up. Sabathitez glided past Seander.
"Good luck Inquisitor," said Seander.
Sabathitez turned and locked the sergeant with those intense blue eyes.
"Keep your luck, sergeant. I have a feeling you're going to need it more."
By the time he'd walked back up to the comms-room, Seander had nearly shrugged aside Sabathitez's cryptic comment. The guy was a psyker; Seander had come to expect some kind of mystical riddle crap once in a while. But the way the Inquisitor had said it was nagging at him.
Seander strode into the small comms-room and noted those of his team. Mischer, with a mug of caffeine, watching the screens. Raquin, sitting at the comms-desk, wearing the bulky vox headset, tracking the team's process. Chael, their other pilot, alternating between following their route on the archaic radar screen and looking at his chrono. And Franbar, the group's third scout, who'd recently come down with a dose of something and thus missed out the opportunity to physically go with Croen and Vesarch. He'd been feeling better that morning and was looking forward to returning to action.
Though hopefully not too soon, though Seander.
"ETA?" he asked Raquin.
"Twelve minutes sixteen seconds and counting, sir," she replied without looking up. Young, attractive and focussed, Raquin was a valuable asset to the team. Not only a crack shot, she was also a trained field medic, and a skilled technician.
"Maviences is gonna have a hell of a shock," murmured Franbar, munching quietly on a high calorie ration.
"Damn right about that," agreed Mischer, sipping his caffeine.
"Is everyone prepped, just in case?" asked Seander.
"I'll go warm up the Lumis in a sec," said Chael, tapping the radar screen. "When they reach the halfway marker, I'll begin running the start-up sequences."
"Good man. Mischer, where are the others?"
"Vevori and Nehl are on the firing range, and Bruger, Kenzi and Lienn are all in the mess hall."
"Make sure they're ready, Misch. I want everyone ready to move in case of the worst."
Franbar turned to face the sergeant and cocked an eyebrow quizzically.
"You aren't worried, aren't you sarge?" he asked.
"I don't know," replied Seander, watching the screens absently.
Keep your luck, sergeant. I have a feeling you're going to need it more. "I've just got a bad feeling about this�"
To kill time until Hiraq's team touched down, Seander went and got changed. At least he'd be ready if they were needed, and he didn't really feel like waiting around in the comms-room anyway.
Soft, interior clothing was replaced with a toughened synthetic crimson body glove and black carapace armour on his forearms, thighs, chest and groin. He then buckled on carapace-studded gauntlets and shoulder-pads and sturdy combat boots that hit mid-shin. On top of all that went his equipment webbing, laden with various pouches, satchels and tags for holding ammunition, grenades and other miscellaneous effects such as door spikes, fifty metres of tightly coiled steel-plaited rope, flares, lock picks, lamp packs, auspexes and so forth.
For the attack, Seander had ordered everyone to go in light. He was certain that all they would need would be their weapon, a backup pistol, reloads, and grenades, with two members of each team carrying field medi-kits. He put all the unneeded equipment neatly back in his kit locker.
Finally, he slid a twenty-five-centimetre combat knife into the sheath on his belt, checked the sighting on his secondary firearm, a sleek matt-black autopistol, and slapped a fresh sickle clip into his bolter, which felt reassuringly heavy and dangerous in his hands. He was just slinging the weapon over his shoulder on its carry-strap and picking up his helmet when his personal comm beeped.
"Seander," he said, flicking it on.
"Sir, Hiraq's team are touching down in one minute and counting."
"I'm there."
"Progress?"
Raquin, still sitting at her post, turned to glance at Seander as he walked in.
"The link's lousy sir. But they've just touched down and rendezvoused with Croen and Vesarch, and are moving in on the enemy position."
"Everyone's suited up and Chael's got the Lumis warmed up," said Mischer, walking in. He was in full combat gear, though like Seander, his helmet was off, and was being carried under his arm.
Seander nodded in acknowledgement. A sudden squeal of white noise drew his attention back to the comm-set.
"The frag! Raquin!"
"I don't know what's wrong, sir. Wait� wait, did you hear that?"
Seander strained his hearing. Amongst the crackle of static, he could make out the sounds of shouting, gunfire, screams� and, almost indistinguishable from amongst the background noise, a chuckle.
"They've engaged," he murmured.
"I'll get Chael to�" started Mischer.
"No!" cut in Seander. "We don't move until we get the signal. Quit jumping and settle down. I'm sure it's nothing they can't handle."
The vox babbled incomprehensibly for a few tense moments, before they could just make out a voice, tinny and distorted through the bad link and foul weather.
"Home ba� d� ou� ead? This is� owen. Cop�?"
It was Howen, the vox-man of Hiraq's team. Seander raised the mic to his mouth, speaking slowly and clearly.
"This is Seander, Howen. We read you, but only just. What's the situation?"
A pause. Five seconds.
"Heav� resis� nce, lots of� tiles�! Shit!"
"Howen! Howen, do you read me? Howen!"
A longer pause. The link was lousy with static and white noise. They could just make out the sounds of gunfire and frantic yelling. And there was still that low, almost unnoticeable, chuckle.
Seander was just about to hail Howen again when Hiraq's voice cut in, surprisingly clear across the link.
"Crap, Alek! Where are you? Come in!"
"Nilas, what the hell's going on over there? Where's Howen?"
"Dead! Holy crap Alek, we're getting slaughtered! There's too many of them! We're-"
The link broke down again. Hiraq's voice became choppy and irregular, like Howen's had been.
"We nee� elp� hur�! Th� tists are� glowing ma�. witchery! Too� any� Sabathitez, he� aitor!"
And then there was nothing. Just the fizzling of a dead link.
"Link's been lost, sir," murmured Raquin.
"Let's move!" yelled Seander, storming out of the comms-room. Damn it, he didn't know what the hell was going on, but he was going to find out. Probably the hard way, the sergeant thought as he ran to the hangar where Chael was waiting with the prepped Lumis.
He just hoped they wouldn't be too late.
There was a grim and stony silence in the Lumis as Chael flew recklessly fast to the DZ. No-one spoke. Vevori was clasping a silver aquila pendant tightly in his hand and mouthing the words of his ritual charm for good luck. Bruger, the team's heavy weapons man, looked grim and focused as he held his heavy autogun close to his chest, as a child might hold a favourite toy. Kenzi was quietly tapping his finger-tips on the metal of his hellgun. Lienn and Nehl both looked withdrawn and depressed. They were obviously thinking grim thoughts of the fate of their fellows. Mischer, Raquin and Franbar looked the same.
Seander sighed slightly to subdue his anger and worry, focussed himself somewhat and settled back in his seat. Another couple of minutes� then they'd be amongst the cultist filth like vengeful gods.
"ETA is one minute forty," came the murmur of Chael's voice over the intercom.
Seander looked up at his team, his friends.
"Squad," he said simply. They all slowly turned their heads to look at him with eyes that smouldered with grief, anger and confusion. Seander swallowed slightly to clear his throat.
"This is the plan. Vevori, Franbar, Kenzi and I will take point, Lienn, Mischer, Nehl and Chael leapfrog after us. Bruger, Raquin, cover our backs and lay in if we encounter heavy shit. We need to be fast, and we need to be good. For their sakes."
There were some nods, and Seander watched as professionalism and calm replaced the pain in his team's eyes. There'd be time to grieve later. For now, they would have to act "like lizards" as Hiraq had put it once; no pity, no mercy, no emotion, just cold-blooded expertise.
Hiraq� "ETA is twenty and counting," said Chael.
Seander pushed the worries about Hiraq, Croen, Vesarch, Pietr, Kavo, Howen, Daige, Miya, Epiam, Jarena- even Sabathitez- from his mind.
"Helmets, night-sight, and comms on! Let's give 'em hell!" he snarled.
Seander, Vevori, Franbar and Kenzi had leapt from the Lumis' drop-doors and were moving ahead before the 'copter had even touched down on the grass.
The four spread out and went in low and fast across the grass, seeing the world through the emerald haze of their helmet's night vision. They took their first bit of cover- a low, decorative grey stone wall- and crouched behind and around in, weapons raised, as they waited for Mischer's team to move up.
Mischer, Nehl, Lienn and Chael didn't take long; they deployed in record time. As they moved forward, Seander took the opportunity to assess the surroundings.
Like the report had said, this had once been an old summer house of a rich businessman, and it's accompanying grounds. Seander could see the house, a stately E-shape, roughly three hundred metres away. They had landed in the south gardens, at the rear of the house, a small and lavish forest in all rights, where Hiraq's team had�
Wait. Where the frag is their 'copter? Seander shocked himself with what seemed the obvious question he had missed. Now that he noticed the lack of the ornithopter, wreckage or otherwise, he also noticed the lack of bodies, of conflict even. He scanned the lawns, not seeing a single body or even a spent case. This was disturbing; it was almost as if Hiraq's team hadn't even arrived in the first place. There simply wasn't a trace of them.
And where the hell where the cultists?
Waiting in the house, ready to blow you apart if you don't fragging focus, he mentally snapped. He flipped back to reality, saw Mischer's team securing a luxurious gazebo fifty metres ahead.
"Move," he ordered his team-mates, and the four of them ran ahead, crouched low over their weapons. Behind him, he could hear Bruger and Raquin following them at a light jog, covering their advance.
Seander and his team were just passing the gazebo that Mischer's team was holding when the night suddenly lit up. Banks of high-powered flood-lights situated around the garden, installed by a previous owner who'd obviously had a taste for exceptionally well-lit open-air night parties, came on with a series of hollow, tinny booms. There was an explosion twenty metres ahead of Seander and before the smoke had cleared, the sergeant was issuing orders.
"Night-sight off! Hostiles! Hold positions and fire at will!"
They'd been lying in wait. There were about twenty cultists about a hundred metres ahead of them, hidden amongst walls, bushes and benches. One had a light rocket launcher, which explained the explosion. The others were carrying a mix of lasguns and autoguns. They were all wearing turquoise and crimson, which Seander presumed was the heraldry of their cult.
The sudden flood of light had been intended to dazzle and confuse them with the sudden stark glare, but the visors of Inquisitorial Guard helmets were made from light-sensitive plastiglas that automatically darkened to prevented the wearer from being blinded. The intended trap had backfired on the cultists; instead of bumbling, dazzled amateurs, they were up against ten Inquisitorial Guard, unfazed and unwavering.
Bear in mind they took down Hiraq's team, Seander nagged at himself before he got too cocky. He dropped to one knee and fired off a pair of Kraken penetrators from his bolter. With a more potent propellant and warhead than regular bolts, the Krakens were overkill on such soft targets, but Seander took some pleasure in the knowledge that one hit would almost certainly equal one kill.
His shots, burning red tracers, streaked across the lawn. One buried itself in the earth a few metres in front of the cultist line, but the other blew out the belly of one unfortunate in a surprisingly messy spray of gore and vitae. The others were also exchanging fire with the cultists. Seander watched with satisfaction as Bruger cut down three with his heavy auto, while Raquin pinked off the cultist with the rocket launcher with a spectacular headshot.
After a fierce exchange of fire, the cultists began to fall back, towards the main house. Seander saw that there was a short flight of wide stone stairs at the end of the lawn that led up onto what appeared to be a large patio area, some fifty metres square and flanked by stone archways that presumably led off into smaller, inner gardens.
"Order to pursue, sir?" asked Mischer, poised and ready to move.
"Yes. But stay sharp. They know we're here. We'll be right behind you. Bruger, move up with them. Give them some support."
Bruger, the tallest and broadest of them by far, nodded firmly and advanced with Mischer, Nehl, Lienn and Chael.
Seander nodded to the others and they followed the others, fingers on triggers, flicking their expert gazes over potential hiding places as they ran. Within moments, they had drawn level with the corpses of those they had already killed, and once more bottled down into what cover they could find.
The stairway leading up to the patio was about twenty metres away, and the cultists were crouched down behind the elaborately carved marble wall that surrounded the exterior of the patio. A good position, by all accounts. Hard cover, providing more-than-adequate protection and a superior firing angle.
Of course, all that cover meant nothing if the attacker had some kind of explosives.
Which they did.
"Bruger, if you'd be so kind," murmured Seander.
The heavy weapons man chuckled quietly and swung his heavy auto up. He made a few adjustments to his aim, taking the range and height into consideration before pumping his weapon's underslung AGL twice and sending a pair of frag charges through the air. The rocket-grenades described lazy arcs in the night air before detonating against the cultist's makeshift cover and shredding six of the heretics. Powdered marble and blood-mist filled the air.
Then Maviences made his entrance.
His arrival was heralded by a psychic bow-wave of kinetic force that sent them all flying backwards. Seander fell heavily amongst the damp, firm earth of a flowerbed of fragrant quilquithel and grunted with surprise and confusion.
The Inquisitorial Guard were already back on their feet when Maviences appeared at the top of the flight of stairs, backed by thirty or so cultists.
High Cardinal Maviences. An imposing and charismatic man, just over six foot tall, and recently turned eighty-seven standard, though still healthy and active thanks to standard juvenat treatment. He was dressed in robes of turquoise and crimson. A Cardinal's mitre, decorated with a coiling serpent design, sat upon his head, and intricate tattoos covered his bare face and hands. His eyes were an intense cobalt in colour, seeming to burn with internal fires. A sword hung from a richly-ornamented scabbard on his belt-sash. And in his right hand, he held a long, black staff, taller than him by at least a foot. The staff was also lavishly decorated; in addition to the multiple unclean sigils and runes that hung from the staff, there was the serpent motif present. To Seander, it seemed as if a snake had been allowed to coil around the staff before being encased in gold, the serpent's head, with gaping mouth and bared fangs, forming the staff's headpiece.
Maviences took a few steps towards the team of Inquisitorial Guard.
"Welcome friends. I am High Cardinal Maviences, ruler of this exalted planet. Come, lower your weapons. There is no need for violence here."
Seander felt his arms twitch, almost beginning to lower his bolter. Damn! Psyker tricks. This was going to get tougher before it got easier. He watched, satisfied, as none of his team lowered their weapons more than a fraction. Intensive psycho-resistant training prevented all but the strongest of psykers from working their subtle mind-magic on them.
Unfortunately, it seemed as if Maviences was one of those stronger psykers. A slight anger seemed to ignite in the High Cardinal's eyes as he saw his relatively petty mind trick was largely ineffective.
"Not bad," he hissed slightly. "It's a refreshing change to encounter minds with some resemblance of endurance� but it is futile to resist."
A stronger force this time, evidence of the High Cardinal flexing his monstrous psychic might. Seander felt his hands tremble and cold sweat prick on his brow as Maviences tried to claw his way into their resistant minds. He gritted his teeth and silently recited the Protective Litany Against Witchery as his vision started to swim. Maviences snarled slightly, and his brow furrowed as his mental onslaught increased fractionally. When Seander thought he could take more, when it felt like his brain was boiling in his skull, the pressure that had been burrowing into the back of his head suddenly vanished. Seander and the rest of his team visibly slumped, and, regaining his senses, Seander noticed that even a few of Maviences' cultists had fainted from the backwash of psychic force.
Maviences himself looked slightly strained, and a trickle of sweat ran down his cheek.
"I must say, I am impressed," said the renegade High Cardinal with a cruel grin. "You are far more resistant than your comrades. Or should I say, your ex-comrades."
Seander heard Kenzi roar in sudden anger and swing his hellgun up to target Maviences. The High Cardinal didn't flinch or move, but Seander saw the man's cheek twitch slightly. That was all that was needed.
Kenzi was screaming something at Maviences that Seander didn't really hear. But before Kenzi could squeeze the trigger of his weapon and blow Maviences apart, Nehl suddenly whirled on Kenzi and put a manstopper shotgun shell through the neck his fellow trooper.
"Nehl!" screamed Seander as Kenzi collapsed in a bloody heap.
But Nehl wasn't listening. He swung round, pumped the slide of his shotgun and buried another round in Franbar's gut. Franbar gave a strangled shriek, and his convulsing body, bleeding uncontrollably, joined that of Kenzi on the ground. Seander saw how jerky Nehl's actions were. The man was under psychic control, undoubtedly that of Maviences.
"Nehl, shake it off!" shouted Bruger, hefting his heavy auto and taking fresh aim at his friend. "Don't make me shoot you!"
"They'll be no need to shoot him," chuckled Maviences, his cheek twitching again, ever so slightly.
Seander watched horrified as the unholy force that was controlling Nehl made the man remove his helmet and place the point of his shotgun to his head. Nehl's face was contorted into a grotesque expression that seemed to combine a pleading desperation and absolute fear.
"Nehl!" shouted Bruger again, but it was too late. Nothing more than an unwilling pawn for Maviences, Nehl's finger closed around the trigger of his weapon before any of them could react. Half a second later, everything above Nehl's lower jaw was pulped by the point-blank shell, and the near-decapitated body fell, a puppet with its strings now cut.
There was a terrible silence. A terrible, loaded silence. Seander felt hollow inside as the blood from three of his team-mates soaked into the grass. Was this how the others had died?
Maviences gave a slight nod to the cultists behind him. With a whoop of twisted jubilation, the fanatics surged forward, firing on the run. Seander's survival instincts kicked in, and he fell into a backwards roll, firing his bolter on semi-auto as he fell, killing two and wounding a third. Seander rose to his feet, and fell back with the others, back across the lawn. They had to get out of here. They stood no chance against Maviences' witchery. If they could get back to the base, vox in additional teams�
Lienn gave a shriek as a volley of autogun fire tore her to shreds. She dropped to the ground, bleeding from numerous serious wounds. Chael collapsed with a cry as a las-round destroyed his knee, seconds before another shot punched straight through his visor and hit him full in the face. Vevori killed at least six before he was gutted by a murderous ripple of shots. They were dying. They were all dying! Seander howled his fury, and backed by Raquin, Bruger and Mischer, stopped falling back and started to return fire, as fast and as accurately as he had done on thousands of firing ranges. He killed six, seven, eight, before his magazine gave an empty metallic clack.
"Cover me!" he yelled to the others as he dropped and fumbled for a fresh clip. There was a sudden incandescent flare, a muffled detonation, and a wash of heat, and Seander looked up to see the charred husk that had once been Mischer fall backwards, nothing more than a pair of legs and an abdomen engulfed in pink and blue flames. More of Maviences' witchery, no doubt. Their psycho-resistant training might have helped them against his mind-magic, but there was little they could do against blasts of psychic fire.
Raquin grunted as she caught a glancing shot across her right arm, and she flinched backwards. Bruger was blazing away on full-auto, occasionally pumping the underslung launcher, wreaking havoc in the cultist ranks.
"Back! Into cover!" shouted Seander, slamming a fresh sickle clip home, the turf at his feet kicking up as some shots went wide.
Raquin nodded, dropped two more cultists, and started to turn. She began to say something, but her words dissolved into screams, and she fell to her knees, dropping her long-las and gripping the sides of her head with both hands. Seander wheeled to see what was wrong, and was just in time to see Raquin's head explode in a shower of blood, bone and armour shards.
"Raquin!" the sergeant screamed. He looked in the direction they had come in, no more than ten minutes ago. Standing behind them, some thirty metres away, were two figures. One was floating above the ground, and was covered with leather bindings, chains, padlocks and parchments. The floating figure was also glowing with a vivid electric blue halo, a spectral witch-light aura. Seander knew what it was. He'd seen these things before, once or twice.
A daemonhost! Frag, this gets better and better! He couldn't quite see the second figure; they stood slightly behind the daemon-thing, which was currently preparing a fresh psychic assault after murdering Raquin. Seander wanted to cry a warning to Bruger, but knew it really wouldn't do any good at all.
There was a soundless inrush of air to Seander's left, and everything seemed to go into slow motion. Bruger was roaring something that Seander didn't really hear. He saw the bright tracers of Bruger's autogun ripping through the air, he saw every individual spent brass case spin and clatter from the eject port. He felt the sudden shockwave of malign psychic energy that explosively flayed the heavy weapons man from the inside out. He felt himself being thrown through the air to land five metres away.
Alek Seander, Inquisitorial Guard sergeant for three years, lay still. They'd failed. Twenty Inquisitorial Guard and a young Inquisitor- cut down in his prime- slaughtered by the renegade High Cardinal. He couldn't feel his legs or his right arm. Absently he realised that he no longer possessed those limbs; they had been shredded away by the blast that had killed Bruger.
A shadowy figure loomed over him. Seander didn't care. He might as well die now, after failing so utterly. He couldn't make out the figure's features; it was getting darker. The mystery figure unsheathed a sword- a sword that seemed to burn with blue and violet fire. Then they chuckled. That deep, luxurious, sinister laugh that they had heard in the background of the vox not even an hour ago.
"I told you that you'd need your luck more, sergeant," said the figure in a all-too-familiar voice. Seander's heart stopped briefly, and he struggled up as best he could to look up into the eyes of Inquisitor Irano Caseius Sabathitez. He was alive! He was� with the cultists. Seander recalled the broken conversation and mentally filled in the blanks; Sabathitez. Traitor!
Then Chaaz Ak'rahn flashed downwards and Alek Seander knew no more.
