Vaults of Terra- The Hollow Mountain - Chris Wraight Read online

  She splashed cold water over her face, rubbed the skin dry, and turned away from the mirror.

  Her private chambers were set on the northern wall of the citadel, near the summit and only overhung by the topmost gun emplacements. Her sole view of the city outside was through a single set of narrow, reinforced windows. She could see towers crowding the night beyond, rank upon rank of them, each one surmounted by glowing marker lights and glittering from their thousands of tiny viewports. Palls of smoke from the incinerators and cathedral-furnaces rolled lazily across the darkness, snagging on the gothic turrets and spilling back down into the narrow canyons between.

  The Palace itself was far to the north, a long way out of sight. Its grandeur might have been a world away from the crumbling mazes before her, and yet it never left her mind. She had come closer to it than she had ever dared to hope, albeit via buried ways that gave her little sight of the immense structures above. Since returning to Courvain, she had pondered little else – the ranks of statues forgotten in the deep dark, the foundations buried under centuries of accumulation, the smell of ancient dust in her nostrils, deposited in another age and only stirred again by their brief intrusion.

  Crowl had gone further in, she knew. He had said nothing of what he’d seen, and she had learned better than to ask, but something had changed in him. He’d been brought out unconscious. When he’d finally stirred again, his first expression had been almost rapturous, as if he were still in the presence of something phenomenal, before he’d blinked, winced, and realised that it had gone. After that, there had been a change, some faint mark left on him. She could never quite put her finger on what it was – he remained dry, soft-spoken, occasionally sardonic – but an alteration had taken place.

  Perhaps that was inevitable. You did not come so close to such powers without being changed by them. Even as Terra was moulding her, so the Palace, or what had taken place within it, had changed Crowl, and only time would tell where those changes would lead.

  And then there was the heresy of it – the xenos, the monster, dredged up from the profane reaches of the void and delivered into the very precincts of holiness. The thought of it disgusted her beyond endurance, just as the memory of its many depravities still polluted her mind. She had seen foulness before, but never so close to the heart of what she had been charged to protect. It should never have got so far in. Now, whenever she closed her eyes to begin her devotions, she would see its hollowed-out face. Crowl said it was dead now, killed by the Custodian Navradaran, its body destroyed. She had to believe that. And yet, in the dark hours of the night, when she awoke, she would still catch it staring at her through the window, or back at her in the mirror, or from behind her altar, licking its dark tongue around its bone-pale lips.

  Just visions. It was weakness to entertain them at all. To combat them, she read the catechisms aloud. She returned to the Pradjia rhythms again, clutching to their solidity and simplicity, trusting that, in time, faith would dispel such phantoms from her unconscious mind.

  She donned her robes, pinning the rosette to her breast and adjusting the heavy fabric of her cassock. In the far corner of the chamber, hoisted on a metal rack and surrounded by ritual candles, was Argent, the modified crozius arcanum gifted her by the Space Marine Chaplain Erastus. Simply laying eyes on it made her fingers itch to grasp it, to take it out into the darkness and use it to tear the shadows apart. Physical violence was easy – it was pure, and it was sanctioned. Other forms of service, particularly those practised here, were harder.

  A chime sounded, and a corresponding lumen-bead spread a soft blush of red across her wax-stamped purity seals.

  ‘Interrogator,’ came a thin voice over her private comm – ­Aneela’s, by the sound of it.

  ‘I am aware of the hour,’ Spinoza replied, pulling a cloak over her shoulders. ‘I shall be there presently.’

  The link cut out. The candle flames fluttered in the hot air, sending their warm light flickering over Argent’s sacred outlines.

  It had never been over. The short time for respite – a mere breath, a single heartbeat – had passed. Now it would all start again.

  Chapter Two

  Crowl moved through one of the many snaking capillaries that twisted and interlocked within his home’s old and deteriorating heart. Drifting suspensors cast weak light over the dark metal walls. Every panel he passed was inscribed with worn-smooth homilies or excerpts from Inquisitorial manuals. The air smelled both antiseptic and musty, as if the grime of ages were perpetually warring against endless efforts to erase it. Strange noises welled up intermittently from the levels below, muffled by distance and distorted by the citadel’s many interior crannies.

  As he made his way higher, climbing up narrow spiral stairways, a servo-skull swooped in close. It bobbed at his shoulder, its lone eye a dull, thoughtful orange.

  ‘Where have you been, Gorgias?’ Crowl asked.

  ‘Armorias,’ the skull replied. ‘Requiring repleneo. Not enough.’

  Crowl nodded, still climbing. ‘It’s being looked into. Revus is working all the hours he can.’

  The skull dipped and swerved around a floating suspensor caddy, making its lumen-bulbs wobble. ‘Furioso,’ he blurted.

  ‘Yes, they will be.’ Crowl paused. ‘And what do you think of that, then? Who has the right to be angry at whom?’

  Gorgias spun around on his vertical axis. For a moment, the skull seemed genuinely nonplussed. Then he darted off again, leading the way up the spiral. ‘Periculo,’ he murmured aimlessly. ‘Periculoso.’

  Given its prestige and age, Courvain was not a particularly well-appointed citadel. It was by turns too cold and too hot, its air gritty from the overworked processors, its foundations slowly sinking into the silts below, but the upper apartments had at least a semblance of civility to them. Candles burned in deep alcoves, breaking the monotony of the sodium-yellow lumens. Fine statuary on devotional themes stood in recesses between the carved doorways. Much of the accumulation in such places was due to Crowl’s forebears, but now and then there was a piece that he had collected himself – a jewelled copy of the Reflections of Saint Adsel, or a chalice from one of the ruined chapels in the Renata purge-zone. All such items were cared for rigorously, their plinths free of dust, their protective ward-shields glistening faintly like spiders’ webs.

  Spinoza was waiting for him in front of the doors to Crowl’s council chamber. She, too, was out of armour, but somehow the reduction in bulk didn’t seem to diminish her essential solidity. She stood unconsciously in a military stance – spine straight, shoulders back – as if she were still somehow serving alongside the Adeptus Astartes rather than occupying a shadier role within the Ordo Hereticus.

  Spinoza might have made a fine Space Marine, Crowl thought, had she been a man. And if she had been a product of a different schola she might instead have ended up in the Adepta Sororitas, something that he suspected she would have preferred if the choice had been presented to her. As it was, fate had dragged her into the bosom of the Inquisition, where she was now condemned to spend the rest of her mortal existence.

  There were so few real choices in the lives they all led, he reflected. Only different varieties of duty.

  ‘My lord,’ she said, bowing her head a fraction.

  Still she persisted in that. Trying to get her to use names was, it seemed, a doomed endeavour.

  ‘Khazad will live,’ Crowl informed her, signalling for the doors to open. ‘Just like you, Spinoza – hard to put away.’

  The interrogator followed him inside. As they entered the chamber, a glow of lighting bled up from recessed panels, gilding the moribund space with a scatter of soft amber. ‘I am glad of it,’ she said. ‘What did she make of the offer?’

  ‘She accepted,’ said Crowl, reaching for a goblet of wine. Experience taught him that Spinoza wouldn’t drink, so he poured just the one glass, adding the powdered narc
otic-mix from a dispenser at his wrist. It was a movement so practised and familiar that he could have done it in his sleep. ‘Which does her credit – we are hardly a choice employer at this time.’

  ‘Nonetheless, I believed she would.’

  Spinoza stood beside her usual place at the long council table, making no move to pull the chair out. That, too, was a minor irritant. Crowl had at times wondered just how long she’d stand there if he never invited her to sit. All night, probably. There had been times when he’d been tempted to test the hypothesis.

  ‘Sit, please,’ he said, lowering himself into the iron-inlaid throne at the head of the table. As he did so, a chime sounded from the other side of the room, where a second set of slide-doors were half-lost in shadow. Spinoza raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I wanted Revus here for this too,’ Crowl said, unlocking them with a gesture. ‘This is about survival.’

  Gorgias adopted his favoured position hovering between Crowl and Spinoza. Revus entered, acknowledged both of them, then took his place at the far end. The captain of the storm troopers looked battered, as if caught out in bad weather for too long.

  There was a faint crackle as the chamber’s sensor-baffle field activated. Crowl took a long sip of his wine – a trifle foxed by age, but not bad – then flexed his gloved fingers.

  ‘One thing is certain – we cannot remain static,’ he said. ‘We must move again, despite what remains unknown.’

  Spinoza and Revus listened. They had both been with him under the Palace. No doubt they had also spent time contemplating what had to come next. The dust had settled in the old tombs, the great mass of pilgrims had reeled away from the final Sanguinala rituals, drunk on religious fervour, but Terra never rested. It was always a crucible, always in a churn of movement.

  ‘So, this is what we know,’ Crowl went on. ‘A xenos creature was brought to Terra. Its presence, it seems, was required for some purpose connected to the Throne itself. Whatever the intention, the creature carved its own path under the Palace and was ended there. It is possible that those behind its deliverance will let matters drop now. It is possible they will have learned their lesson and repented of consorting with such monsters.’ He took another sip, then let slip a wry smile. ‘But it is also possible that their folly knows no limit, and that having come this far, they will attempt to finish what they have started. We must understand what they wish for. We must understand who they are.’

  ‘You mentioned Lords of the Council,’ said Spinoza warily.

  ‘Three of them,’ said Crowl. ‘That is what Khazad’s master Phaelias believed, and that is what the xenos told me. No evidence, no names, just accusations from unreliable mouths.’

  Gorgias began to agitate. ‘Traitoris!’ he blurted. ‘Castigatio!’

  ‘Yes, very possibly,’ said Crowl.

  ‘But…’ Spinoza began, then trailed off.

  Crowl looked at her tolerantly. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘All of us were hunting it,’ she said. ‘All of us rejoice that it is dead. Perhaps, beyond that… The truth of these charges. Perhaps that is less clear.’

  ‘I know you wish to think that,’ said Crowl. ‘I understand why. But I spoke to Rassilo at the end. There is division within the Council. The Three – if it is Three – have kept their task secret from the others, and a virtuous policy is not kept secret. They can’t stop now. They will carry on, maybe attempt the same thing again, maybe try some other scheme, but they can’t stop. And if our involvement in this becomes known, they will come for us, too.’

  ‘Surely too late for that,’ said Revus.

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Crowl. ‘Consider this – Rassilo was killed. All those she took with her into the catacombs were killed, or taken away by the Custodians. They will not be coming back, at least not with the same minds they entered with. The same can be said for those led by the heretic Lermentov, whose life was ended here by my own hand. So, who is left to witness our presence? Who among those who commissioned this can truly know what happened in the vaults? I do not know. It may be they have gleaned nothing at all, and are left to guess what took place, or it may be they know everything. We cannot presume, one way or the other.’

  ‘The Custodian, though?’ asked Revus.

  Crowl sighed. ‘Ah, yes, Navradaran. I would very much like to speak to him again, but my attempts have failed. I should not be surprised – either he chooses to remain silent, or he has been assigned to some other mission and cannot hear me. They are not servants to be held at one’s beck and call.’ He drank again. The narcotic blend was taking its time to work, and he felt pain throb in his glands. ‘We are on our own, with limited information. Our first task must be to change that. We must uncover the complete picture.’ He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. ‘Phaelias believed that the Speaker of the Chartist Captains was involved. That would seem likely, given information I received from Navradaran. There was a contact in the Speaker’s service, a woman named Glucher, who was in correspondence with those responsible for bringing the xenos out of the deep void. Phaelias discovered that she had been dead for five years before this started, and so the name itself is a cipher, but there was clearly some involvement there. Remember also that bringing such cargo to Terra undetected is hard – I find it difficult to imagine any such scheme being enacted without the Speaker being somehow entangled.’

  ‘That’s one, then,’ said Revus. ‘Another two to find.’

  ‘The second must be the Fabricator-General,’ said Crowl. ‘The cargo was first landed at Skhallax, and the final ship used in the transit was a Mechanicus vessel. Again, I cannot imagine that happening without his knowledge. Phaelias was also of this view.’

  ‘The third, then?’ asked Spinoza.

  ‘There, we reach the end of certainty,’ said Crowl. ‘If there was indeed a third party, we have ten more names to consider. We may be inclined to reject the Provost Marshal, whom Phaelias had persuaded to conduct the orbital cordon, but that still leaves nine. Too many. We can hardly knock on their doors to ask.’

  ‘Nor can we go to Mars,’ said Revus flatly. ‘Not in secret.’

  ‘True enough,’ said Crowl. ‘So we have the Speaker, the Provost Marshal, and not much else. That is where we start, though we must pursue this without leaving a trace – the moment our involvement is revealed is the moment we lose the power to investigate.’

  ‘Then you already have a procedure in mind,’ said Spinoza.

  ‘At present, Spinoza, that is all I have,’ said Crowl. ‘We must access the archives in the Halls of Judgement. We need to establish what the Arbites know, or knew, and whether they are still pursuing an investigation. Even if they are not, there may be material there that can aid us. In addition, we must check for the remnants of Rassilo’s forces. It seems likely to me that Gloch, her oversized henchman, never left the Palace, but we must be sure. His network stretched into Salvator – we must find out if he lives, and whether he is capable of directing harm towards us.’

  Spinoza still sat stiffly, her hands clasped before her on the tabletop.

  ‘And the Speaker?’ she asked, carefully.

  ‘She shall be my quarry,’ said Crowl. ‘I see no way of discovering what we need without getting close to the centre of her web. We need a name, just one, plus knowledge of what was intended.’

  ‘And when all this is done,’ said Spinoza, ‘and we gather a case – what then? Are we to set ourselves against the Council?’

  ‘A part of it.’

  ‘I… see.’

  Crowl sighed. The pain suppressors didn’t seem to be working – the dull ache that accompanied his every move was morphing into something sharper. ‘What would you have us do, Spinoza? Turn away?’

  ‘No. No, of course not.’ She looked pained. ‘But there is the Lex.’

  Revus smiled privately to himself.

  ‘Yes, there is the L
ex,’ said Crowl, patiently. ‘But at present there is no one we could go to, not with these rumours and half-heard whispers. We would be laughed out of the Council, even supposing we were somehow granted an audience, which is doubtful.’ He placed his fingertips to his temples and began to massage the flesh slowly. ‘We discover the truth, we can discuss what is to be done with it. But the first step, as always, is to discover the truth.’

  Slowly, grudgingly, Spinoza bowed. Gorgias rose up over the centre of the table, swinging wildly.

  ‘Tempus short-supply!’ the skull crowed, turning to face each one of them in turn. ‘Now hurry-hurry.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Crowl wearily. ‘So, unless there are additional points, I see no further purpose in discussion here.’

  Revus looked at Spinoza. Spinoza looked at Revus. Neither spoke.

  ‘Very good,’ said Crowl. ‘Then we take up the hunt again.’ He rose. ‘A new beginning. May the Emperor be with us all.’

  After that, he sent them away. All of them, even Gorgias, who clattered back to wherever Gorgias went when dismissed, grumbling bitterly all the way.

  Crowl climbed the narrow staircase leading up from the council chamber, limping more than usual. He was already at the limit of the narcotics he could ingest, but glanded a sliver of something mildly sedative to take the edge off.

  Was it getting worse? It was likely. He had known for a long time that there was no ultimate escape from this slow decline – the only question was how long it would take. The poisons lodged in his bones and his organs were too deep-seated to expunge without killing him, and now Erunion’s palliative cocktails were the only thing holding him together, like rusty bars clamped around a sagging wall.

  But there was more to it than simple bodily decline. He had breathed the same air as that thing, just for a few moments. Recalling the foulness of its breath still made him want to gag. This was a world full of decay, and yet nothing, nothing, could compare with the rank debauchery that had been present in those few coughed-up breaths. Everything about that monster had been uniquely despicable, a nauseating mixture of cruelty, horror and sheer otherness that went far beyond that possessed by any human heretic or sadist. He had looked into its eyes, down in those deep pits. They had been blacker than the void itself, twin points of nothingness that sucked all life and hope out of the air. Across his many decades of service, he had never witnessed anything so completely, irredeemably corrupted.