Killing Ground w4u-4 Page 9

  'What do you suppose it is?' asked Pasanius.

  Uriel had been wondering the same thing. As he looked closer, he saw what might have been a winged staff encircled by a pair of entwined serpents above the control bridge of the middle vehicle.

  A caduceus?

  'A medicae facility perhaps?' suggested Uriel. 'Seems a bit excessive to use Capitol Imperialis for that.'

  'True, but perhaps that was all they were fit for.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Look at everything else we've seen,' said Uriel. There is a whole army's worth of abandoned armour here. Half the city's built among the mined chassis of Imperial Guard tanks. When the Falcatas took this place, I think whatever Crusade force left them here didn't leave them with much to maintain their equipment.'

  'Meaning it all went to wrack and ruin.'

  'Eventually, yes.'

  'Damn shame that,' said Pasanius. 'Not a good idea to show that lack of respect to something that would have saved your life in battle.'

  'No, not a good idea at all,' agreed Uriel, remembering the harsh treatment meted out to his armour on Medrengard.

  Uriel longed to be enclosed in the battle plate of the Astartes, to feel that he was whole once again and a righteous servant of the Emperor, clad in the strongest armour and armed with the deadliest weapons. Uriel's battle gear was more than simply artefacts of war, they were instruments of the Emperor's will.

  At the foot of the hill upon which stood the medicae facility was a multi tiered, colonnaded dome that could only belong to the roof of an Ecclesiarchy temple. The soaring grandeur of the building was no doubt designed to dominate the more lowly structures around it with its Imperial majesty. Its glories had not spared it the harsh ministrations of war, however, for two of the four spires that rose from the cardinal points of the dome were broken stumps of stone and steel.

  Eclipsing even this temple in its display of Imperial power was a tall, grim-spired palace that towered over the ramshackle city spread around it like debris tumbled from a mountain. Stark against the sky, it was an austere structure, cold and bereft of the glorious ornamentation that Uriel had seen on many other such buildings.

  'The Imperial palace?' he said.

  Pasanius nodded. 'Certainly grim enough for this place.'

  Uriel nodded at Pasanius's assessment. The forbidding aspect of the palace, with its brutal architecture of drum towers topped with hooded turrets, lightning-wreathed antennae and shuttered hangars was certainly in keeping with the sombre atmosphere of this world, but more than that, the building's architecture gave the impression of power without compassion.

  Clearly, Governor Barbaden was not a man given to ostentation. That was a nugget of information to store for later and Uriel wondered what manner of man the Imperial Commander was.

  He was certainly not liked, if the people on the streets of his city were anything to go by.

  They were a handsome, tall people dressed, almost uniformly, in ash-grey coveralls and long cloaks.

  The people hugged the buildings as the Chimeras rushed past, and Uriel saw the same sullen hostility in their eyes that he had seen on the faces of the Guardsmen in the Chimera.

  The Falcatas victory in claiming this world as their own had obviously left scars: scars that had not yet healed.

  Everywhere Uriel looked, he saw evidence of the peoples' cannibalisation of what the Imperial Guard had discarded: market stalls formed from the beaten sheet metal of tank hulls, carts and wagons dragged on wheels scavenged from supply trucks and barrows with handles fashioned from exhaust pipes.

  Colonel Kain's column was travelling rapidly through the streets, taking sharp, veering turns at random.

  'She's not taking any chances on a second ambush,' noted Pasanius, giving voice to Uriel's thought and gripping the edge of the Chimera as it skidded around another corner.

  Uriel looked at the naked hostility that burned from every face.

  'I don't blame her,' he said.

  The Screaming Eagles' journey through the strange streets of Barbadus continued for another ten minutes, ten long minutes during which Uriel expected a shot or streaking missile with every breath. No such violence was unleashed, and each turn took them deeper into the warren of streets and further from the Imperial palace.

  Eventually, the Chimeras increased speed as they surged towards a walled compound set apart from the buildings around it. Uriel had noticed the buildings becoming more widely spaced and less complete for a few moments, but only as they passed out into the open did he see why.

  Rolled coils of barbed wire surrounded the compound and squat, unlovely bunkers of sandbags and timber flanked the heavy iron gate. A bronze eagle was stamped across both sides of the gate and the column of vehicles began to slow as they negotiated a path between great slabs of concrete laid to prevent any direct approach.

  'They're cautious, I'll give them that,' said Pasanius, noting the way the guns at the corners of the compound walls followed the column in.

  'They're scared,' said Uriel, thinking back to the hostility he had seen on every face they had passed on their journey towards this place. 'They've pulled back within their walls. I didn't see any patrols on the streets, did you?'

  'No, but I wouldn't necessarily expect to see a military presence on the streets,' said Pasanius, 'Local enforcers maybe, but not Guard.'

  'I didn't even see any of them,' said Uriel.

  'No. Odd isn't it?'

  'Very,' said Uriel.

  Further conversation was halted as the gate rumbled open, sliding within the fabric of the wall, and the vehicles passed into the dusty courtyard of the compound. There were several barrack buildings inside, of basic Imperial design, portal framed sheds with corrugated iron walls and felt roofs. Similarly drab buildings were spaced at regular intervals around the compound: a mess hall, engineering sheds, fuel dumps, quartermaster stores and an infirmary.

  A flag bearing a golden eagle with outthrust talons flew high over the compound and anxious looking soldiers ran from every building as the battered Chimeras parked up. Shouts were exchanged between men spilling from the vehicles and medics bellowed at their comrades to give the wounded room.

  Uriel vaulted from the roof of the Chimera, aware of the strange looks he and Pasanius were drawing. He saw Colonel Kain, her clipped tones easily cutting through the confusion and collective outrage at the attack. With calm efficiency, she directed the work of the medics, ignoring their expressions of irritation at her meddling.

  Uriel nodded to Pasanius and they walked over to the colonel of the Falcatas.

  'Anything we can do to help?' asked Uriel.

  Kain looked up from issuing her orders, her face clean and pristine again.

  'No,' she said, 'and I'll thank you to remain with Sergeant Tremain. You are still in our custody.'

  'Even after what just happened?' said Uriel, as Sergeant Tremain and a trio of Guardsmen, resplendent in fresh uniform jackets and raised lasguns moved up behind them.

  'Especially after what just happened,' said Kain. 'Your arrival and the Sons of Salinas attack coming so soon after… I would be remiss not to wonder what the connection is, would I not?'

  'The Sons of Salinas?' said Uriel. 'Who are they? I saw that name scrawled on a building in Khaturian.'

  'Another thing I am less than comfortable with,' said Kain.

  'But who are they?' pressed Uriel.

  'They are nothing,' snapped Kain, her eyes blazing with fury. 'They are traitors who cling to the notion that the forces of the Imperium are invaders and should be resisted at every turn. They are terrorists, murderers and heretics, deserving of nothing less than extermination.'

  Uriel was not surprised at her vehemence, for she had just seen scores of her men killed or wounded. Even so, there was a hatred in her steely tones that ran deeper than simple anger at the violence done to her company.

  Verena Kain hated the Sons of Salinas with the passion of a zealot.

  'Have you any i
dea how they were able to attack you like that?' asked Pasanius.

  Kain flashed him a bilious glance that spoke volumes of her frustration. 'This whole damn city feeds them information,' she said. 'Every move we make, there's someone with a portable vox passing word of it.'

  * * *

  It took another thirty minutes to treat the wounded, secure the battered vehicles and re-equip the soldiers, all of whom had expended a good deal of their ammo load in the battle. A nervous looking commissar took statements from soldiers, selected at random, as far as Uriel could tell, and Kain continued to bark orders with the vigour of someone who dared not stop for even a second in case she had time to dwell on what had just occurred.

  Her every command was obeyed with an alacrity that suggested that to do otherwise would result in the severest consequences, and Uriel recognised an officer who knew her trade, and who would never allow others to forget it.

  In that time, Uriel and Pasanius sat against the hull of one of the Chimeras, the metal ticking and groaning as it cooled. The sun was halfway through its ascent towards its zenith and Uriel closed his eyes and let its warmth bathe his exposed flesh.

  With nothing to do but wait until Colonel Kain decided it was time to leave, Uriel revelled in this unaccustomed time to himself. A Space Marine on active duty had precious little time that wasn't spent in preparation for battle. Weapons practice, strength building, biochemical monitoring and all manner of training drills were the virtual be all and end all of his life.

  It was a life of service, a life of sacrifice and a life of battle.

  What servant of the Emperor could ask for more?

  The question presented its own answer in the shape of Ardaric Vaanes.

  Uriel's time on Medrengard had caused him to question his role as a Space Marine, but he had passed his own time of testing and come through it stronger.

  Others on that damned world had not shown such strength of character, and Uriel bitterly remembered the sight of Ardaric Vaanes as he had turned his back on his duty to the Emperor.

  Vaanes had once been a warrior of the Raven Guard, but had, for reasons Uriel never discovered, forsaken his Chapter and taken the path of the renegade. Uriel had offered Vaanes the chance to rediscover his honour and seek redemption, but the warrior had chosen dishonour and disgrace.

  Uriel wondered what had become of Ardaric Vaanes. In all likelihood, he was dead by now, a bleached corpse lying in the ashen wasteland of that dreadful world.

  Feeling himself becoming maudlin, he put Vaanes from his mind and turned his head towards Pasanius.

  Neither man felt the need to speak to one another, the companionable silence of two old friends who had seen life and death and everything in-between allowing them the luxury of silence.

  That silence was broken by the approach of Colonel Kain.

  Uriel looked up as she approached. 'Governor Barbaden is ready to see you,' she said.

  'Good,' replied Uriel. 'I think I'm about ready to see him too.'

  PART TWO

  FLESHED

  'From little spark should burst a mighty flame.'

  SIX

  Visiting the Imperial palace of Salinas was an experience Daron Nisato avoided whenever he could. The building was too cold and too blatant a symbol of Imperial power to be relished any more. It served as a focal point for the people's anger, and to see its stark, uncompromising lines against the blue of the sky was to understand your insignificance in the face of the Imperium, and more especially, your insignificance in the face of Governor Leto Barbaden.

  Nisato allowed the duty officer of the checkpoint to relieve him of his weapons, though it irked him that the city's chief enforcer could not be trusted with firearms in the presence of the governor.

  This was the third security checkpoint he had passed through this morning, a drab, prefabricated building that smelled of damp and neglect. The first checkpoint at the main gate had halted his Rhino APC and the second, barely twenty paces later, had confirmed his identity via a series of painful, blood-sampling gene-matchers. He smiled grimly as he wondered if the gene-matchers explained the pasty, ashen complexions of the staffers that worked within the palace.

  'Something funny?' asked the duty officer as he locked away Nisato's pistol.

  'No,' replied Nisato, aware that these men lacked anything approaching a sense of humour, 'just happy to see you're doing such a thorough job.'

  The man looked askance at Nisato, searching for signs of mockery, but Nisato was a past master at keeping his thoughts to himself. Satisfied that his solemn duty was not being made fun of, the man nodded gracelessly and waved Nisato through the door that led into the palace's courtyard precincts.

  Nisato was about to pass through when the door behind him opened and the unmistakable aroma of incense, sweat and guilt wafted in. He knew who had entered the room without turning.

  'Cardinal Togandis,' said Nisato.

  He heard the intake of breath and turned to see the rotund figure of the Pontifex Maximus of Barbadus in all his finery.

  'Enforcer Nisato,' said Togandis, his skin sheened in sweat. 'How fortuitous we should find ourselves together at this juncture.'

  Shavo Togandis had never been an impressive man, even when he had served with the Falcatas as its company confessor, his manner too brusque, his appetites too unsavoury and his language too florid. Nisato had never felt the need to avail himself of the man's services, preferring to keep his confessions between the Emperor and himself in prayer.

  The decade since Restoration Day had not been kind to Shavo Togandis's physique, his already doughy frame blooming to one generously proportioned in all directions.

  'You are summoned also?' asked Nisato.

  'Yes, yes,' said Togandis, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. 'We are all servants of our lord and master. Barbaden commands and we obey with alacrity. One does not like to keep the good governor waiting, does one?'

  'No,' agreed Nisato, stepping aside to let the cardinal approach the unsmiling duty officer.

  As Togandis went through the necessary formalities involved in passing through the palace's security, Nisato took a moment to study the senior cleric of Salinas.

  He was not impressed.

  Aside from his generously upholstered frame, Shavo Togandis had a nervous manner that, in any other man, would have seen him hauled into the interrogation cells below the enforcers' precinct and broken down for a confession.

  The confessor confessing. The thought made him smile.

  In addition to his shimmering chasuble of crimson and silver, Togandis wore a tall and elaborately worked mitre with long trailing cords of gold. He carried a long staff, which he was attempting to prevent the duty officer from impounding.

  'Now see here, my good man,' began Togandis, 'this postprandial summons to the palace has inconvenienced me greatly and this staff is a sacred instrument of my most valued and not inconsequential status on this planet. You would be advised not to remove it from my personage.'

  'No weapons or items that could be construed as weapons are allowed within the palace,' said the duty officer, as though reciting the words by rote, 'except by a member of the Falcatas.'

  'Now you listen here, you pathetic little myrmidon, you must understand that there are exceptions to every rule and I refuse to truckle to your purblind devotion. Do you understand?'

  'Frankly, no,' said the duty officer, holding out his hand, 'but it alters nothing. You'll need to hand over your staff.'

  'I wouldn't bother arguing, Shavo,' said Nisato, adopting a tone as stuffy and self-important as the cardinal's. 'Even I, an upholder of Imperial Law, am forced to relinquish my symbols of office in the face of this panjandrum.'

  Togandis looked down at Nisato's empty holster and smiled at the gesture of solidarity, oblivious to the sarcasm in Nisato's voice.

  'Well, indeed, one must band together in the face of adversity, what?' he said, turning and reluctantly handing over his staff to the duty officer. 'And if th
ere is so much as a single imperfection visible upon that staff when I return, I shall deliver the fiercest commination upon your head!'

  The duty officer took the staff and wearily waved the pair of them through.

  Smiling, Nisato followed the cardinal into the courtyard, emerging into bright sunlight on the cusp of the transition from morning to afternoon.

  The palace towered above them, dark and threatening. Its guns and defences, though angled to the sky, remained an impressive symbol of the power of the man who commanded them. Constructed from immense blocks of dark stone, the palace reminded Nisato of the great, cliff-top castles of his home world, brooding crags carved from the rock of the coastline.

  Scarlet-clad soldiers patrolled the lower skirts of the palace, their falcatas unsheathed at their sides. Their red plate gleamed in the sun and the bronze of their helmets shone like gold, but even these men were not permitted to bear firearms as a matter of course.

  Unlike many soldiers who looked ceremonial, the Achaman Falcatas were men he had once been proud to fight alongside. There was no give in these soldiers and they fought with a fire in their bellies that other regiments could only envy. That fire had died since Restoration Day, but its embers still smouldered.

  A trio of Chimera transports emblazoned with the insignia of the Screaming Eagles were parked up before the palace, an unusual enough occurrence that it made Nisato wonder who had travelled in them to be afforded such a rare honour.

  Once again, Togandis dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief.

  'So, did your summons furnish you with any clue as to the nature of this audience?' he asked.

  Nisato shook his head, slowing his normally long stride to allow the waddling cardinal to keep up. 'No, it didn't, but then Leto always was a man of few words, wasn't he?'

  'Indeed he was,' agreed Togandis. 'Indeed he was. No inspiring speeches before a battle, just orders, precise, never to be meddled with, orders.'

  That was certainly true, remembered Nisato. As a cadet commissar when Leto Barbaden had taken command of the Achaman Falcatas, Nisato had summarily executed a number of junior officers who had seen fit to exercise their own initiative in their interpretation of Barbaden's orders.