The Inquisitors were not happy. Once the Admiral interceded on her behalf, it still took some very fast talking to get either one of them to give her Hunters even a single chance. It started with their psykers.
“Well?” the Storm Trooper Captain asked, his entire squad complement ready to snap their rifles up and shoot the Hunters.
“My Lords, I do not understand it, but it is true: none of them are drawing on the Aether.” the first of the unfortunate souls told their superiors. He was an old man, dressed in grey robes, with milky grey eyes. Bowed by age, or the weight of his injuries, she couldn’t tell. If Pyrrha wasn’t mistaken, he was blind.
“The Sea of Souls churns around them, but they are as reefs before its currents.” The other agreed, a middle aged woman clutching some kind of bone pendant.
Pyrrha should have expected it, really. She was too busy keeping an eye on everyone to remember just how different the environment was between Sanctuary and the Spires. Furnace never did learn how to keep his mouth shut.
“Oh come on, these Leaks are going to inspect us for Warp influence? We’re not the ones sucking down warp juice every time we do something.” There was a moment’s pause, as if people were asking themselves “did he really just say that?”
The young knight took advantage of it to keep talking: “Will you stop that?” He asked, poking the old robed man in the stomach. “You’re leaking all over the place and it’s disgusting.” He warned the psyker, his voice full of scorn.
“Laps, Fulrot.” Pyrrha said laconically. Maintaining an unworried appearance was half the battle here. She wasn’t worried, because she had nothing to be worried about. The Knight’s teeth clicked together at the chastisement.
“Not that innocence matters much to the Inquisition.”
Pyrrha did worry, for all she didn’t show it. Not about the hunters here, but about the militia and support staff that had gone on to deliver to the Inquisition all the corrupted artefacts they’d recovered. She knew what would likely happen to them. For all the risk, it was the least bad option she had. Burn them all and they’d hound her onto eternity with suspicions she’d hidden some artefact for herself.
What they’d taken is something far more valuable to Pyrrha: maps of the underhive and lists of contacts for trade, legal and not. The same vaults meant to protect those treasures from being stolen had stopped the fallen family from destroying them in the time it took her Hunters to take their Spire.
The Inquisition would still suspect her people of hiding artifacts now, but between the exhaustive lists and servants of the Inquisition going over the battlefield themselves, it would be paranoia fuelling them, not proof. As long as they didn’t have proof to offer to others, this would remain a political matter.
If it ever stopped being a political matter, her people were doomed. Pyrrha had no delusions about her ability to fight any of the Arbites of the Imperium on her own. As she’d learned, everyone in the Imperium survived by playing them against each other. No planetary noble could stand up to an Admiral, but if the order wasn’t theirs but from the Militarum…
Freedom in the Imperium lived in the spaces between the titans, where jurisdictions were unclear, or clashing. Then, the titans of the Imperium needed proxies so as not to come to blows themselves, which was where everything from mercenaries, gangs, rogue traders to individual noble houses came in.
A war between two Noble Houses was terrible, but nothing to one waged between two full Adeptuses.
“I trust we can proceed?” Admiral Landsteiner asked the inquisitor. They didn’t gnash their teeth or show any overt sign of anger. From the moment the Admiral had landed, they’d switched their faces for something more political.
“It is the privilege and duty of His Majesties Inquisition to safeguard the world of the Imperium against threats from beyond. Surely, a loyal servant of Him on Terra cannot mean to undermine those efforts Admiral?”
“As has been stated multiple times Inquisitor Hartmann, I believe allowing these Hunters access to the banquet will aid your Ordos.”
Inquisitor Hartmann of the Ordo Hereticus was ready with another obfuscation, delay, or more attempts to justify seizing them when the other Inquisitor reached their limit. Or appeared to, at least.
“I’ve heard enough. You will guarantee a demonstration of this… “daemon hunter” technique, Admiral?”
“Lady Nikos has sworn it with her life.” The Admiral replied coolly.
“Find me a daemon.” Pyrrha said much more calmly than she truly felt. “We’ll show you what we Hunt.”
“Surely you cannot belive-“ Inqusitor Hartmann began.
“Enough.” the other Inquisitor said, his voice as hard as plasteel. “Your own psyker agrees Hartmann, they are not witches. They do not draw on the Warp. These Hunters are thus under my jurisdiction.” The Malleus Inquisitor Marthesius stated.
The two Inquisitors didn’t glare at each other. They just exchanged a look that said ten thousand words.
“I trust you will not object to mine accompaniment.” Hartmann switched tracks.
“By all means.” Marthesius conceded. His eyes then fixed on Pyrrha. They were grey, as cold and empty as the void of space. “I’m looking forward to your demonstration, Miss Nikos. I hope you will not disappoint.” He didn’t need to add “or else.” With the Inquisition, that was always understood.
The two wounds in the skin of the world moved aside, falling in among the rest of the Inquisitorial escorts. Pyrrha gave the signal, instructing her example Hunters to stop channeling their Semblance. Fulrot was good for that, his control over his flames exact. Exact enough that he could hold a flame in his hand for a while, while the psykers examined him and the other examples.
Fulrot was good for that, his control over his flames exact. Exact enough that he could hold a flame in his hand for a while, while the psykers examined him and the other examples.
“First hurdle down.” And it was the biggest one. Pyrrha wanted to sigh in relief, but doing so would only reveal weakness. With how many eyes were on her, she and her people couldn’t afford such obvious displays of vulnerability.
Instead, Pyrrha assumed her Malfian trained Noble bearing. The moment she finally did, she could see a wave spread through the less subtle watchers among the crowd.
“That’s right. Just another Malfian plot. Nothing else to see here. Nothing at all.”
If the matter wasn’t so serious, Pyrrha might actually be a bit giddy. She was deceiving the Inquisition itself, or at least the gathered nobility.
Or course, playing at being a Malfian pawn was the favoured tactic of any number of other interests, to the point most actual Malfians had extra layers of subtle signs built into their behaviour, vocabulary, expressions and bearing. It didn’t hurt that Fenksworld was a known destination for agents practicing and honing their plots and intrigue, before taking them to Malfi or to the sector capital on Scintilla.
It was a common tactic, but it still worked because of how often a Malfian wanted to pass as someone else passing of as a Malfian, starting an endless rabbit hole of “Are they actually from Malfi, or just pretending to be?”
“Sometimes I wonder how that world hasn’t been eaten alive by the Plotter. They claim loyalty to the Emperor, but their behaviour shows otherwise.”
***
The governor was in the middle of one of his famous month long banquets. Governor Nikolaus Vaahkon held one of these every year. For Lord Raffael Paschek these were dreadfully dull affairs. If not for the needs of his house to access the Library of Knowing, he would frankly not be here. House Paschek was not an ancient Noble House, not on Fenksworld at least. Theirs was a simple domain, overseeing a smattering of forges and hab blocks that produced Lasrifles and Flak Armour, as many hives all over the Imperium did.
The other Noble Houses liked to mock House Paschek that theirs was an unrefined, commoner’s house. Lord Raffael felt that such mockery was missing the point. For all his house wasn’t among the Founding Nobility of Fenksworld, they’d settled here less than two hundred years after the Angevin Crusade and endured ever since on the steady work, building up their influence. They had their hands in all kinds of weapons, armour and vehicle trade in the Josian Reach. After all, once House Paschek met their quotas for the tithe, the rest of the production of their holdings was a result of their wise management and canny rule, theirs to trade for Thrones or influence.
The Astra Militarum was always in need of more material and many PDF forces required resupply and rearmament after a tithe. House Paschek provided. Their links to the Imperial Guard and a number prominent figures in Adeptus Arbites made House Paschek a middling Noble House on Fenksworld. One that was nearing its first Millennium in the Calixis Sector. Old ties to House Paschek of Segmentum Solar burnished their history, as his was but a branch family. This was both boon and bane, as it allowed House Paschek to call on occasional favours from his distant cousins. But it also burdened him at times with their polite “requests”.
One of which had confined him to a month in the Governor’s Spire, and this damn Banquet.
“Jarquet my dear, has our cousin had any success in their quest?” The Lord asked his Lady wife. The latest burden laid on him was hosting his cousin while they attempted to bribe their way into the Library of Knowing. Which was a tall order, but they were from Solar. They might be able to do it.
“No my Lord. He is still trying to impress his peers on the dance floor with this dreadful “Mikari” dance.”
Lord Raffael almost winced. “That’s the one that appears to emulate a drunk Ork?” he asked drily.
His Lady burst open a fan, hiding her smile. “My love, it is the latest fashion in the Courts.”
“Fashion my ass.”
At least some of his peers were present and he could negotiate actual deals. And the recent drama around the fall of House Vormir had provided plenty of entertainment to all. Why, they’d been the talk of the party until the order to expunge them came down. Perhaps that was what truly bothered Lord Raffael, he’d been engaged in a quite spirited debate on the merits of marrying his third granddaughter to the fourth son of House Vuel to form a new House that might attempt to take over duties from House Vormir when the order had come down.
Dancing around the issue made everything harder, and after several hours of it, they’d decided to resign the discussion in public rather than deal with the bother of it. “Lady” Nikos had replaced House Vormir as talk of the town. Lord Raffael found all those cheering for her utterly disgusting. She and hers were rumored to be witches, and House Paschek knew better than to mess around with those. A bullet to the head was the only proper response to a witch.
Unfortunately, as his spies apprised him, Admiral Landsteiner was interceding on behalf of the witches. Which really made him question the Admiral’s loyalties.
Last he’d heard, they were still arguing with the Inquisitors. Good luck to them.
The banquet hall was located on the 69th floor of the Governor’s spire. It was a wide hall, sealed from the outside, with wide panoramic views of the arctic lands beyond. In fact, the height of the Spires in that direction was deliberately limited to allow that view. It was a large hall, almost half a kilometre long, filled with pools, dance floors, private cubbies for couples or plots(all bugged, of course) and so on. Filled with Nobility from all over Fenksworld, as well as visitors from afar.
No one could just arrive to it. There were many layers of security to go through and numerous spies keeping watch on any new arrivals. So when the main doors suddenly began to open without any warning from any of his spies Lord Raffael Paschek tensed and was far from the only one in the room to do so. Bodyguard detachments all over the hall all snapped to attention as every protocol for arrival was violated. No one even announced the new arrivals.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
But the moment Lord Raffael got his eyes on them, relayed to his data-slate from one of the servo skulls floating above his lounge area, they needed no introduction.
The Imperial navy marched alongside the Admiral and his aids, flanked by two Inquisitors, their personal entourages, a number of Arbites and Inquisitorial Storm Troopers.
A shiver of unease passed through Lord and Lady Paschek. They didn’t show it, but all present shared glances with their peers. The bubble of silence around the front doors was still spreading, but everyone who was anyone was looking around. And none of them had had a clue.
The Governor himself was half-risen from his mobile throne, just about to shout his fabled “What is the meaning of this!?” and cut off before the first word could escape.
Two Inquisitors were in the room. Directly questioning them in public was a quick path to damnation and a traitor’s death.
In the middle of them all, the Lady of the hour advanced, her and her people surrounded on all sides by elites but still, in the same room as the High Nobles of Fenksworld. With no warning given to any, that they were about to arrive, if Lord Paschek was reading his peers right. Which could only be the work of the Inquisition.
He did not touch his plasma pistol. But the Lord was acutely aware he might need it soon. No good thing came from Inquisitors trampling on custom and order like this. Their power was unquestioned… in public. If they’d ambushed every noble present like this, they must have a good reason for it. Right?
He checked his compatriots, his table seating four other Lords and Ladies, all allied in their struggles within the Hive. Their bodyguards closed ranks, ready for anything as the whole room was engulfed in silence. They rose from the table, each returning to their guards. Alliance did not mean unlimited trust, not with the Inquisition on the floor.
“Well?” One of the Inquisitors asked into the bubble of silence, as they came to the middle of the room. The governor was still more than a hundred meters from them, but they’d stopped in the middle of the hall.
“Lady” Nikos jumped onto the shoulders of one of her colourful party, balancing with her feet on his shoulders with ease. She looked around the tense, silent room, her helmet turning, sweeping over everyone. When the blank facemask passed by him, Lord Paschek’s skin crawled. Who know what the witch was doing? Had she ensorcelled even the Inquisitors?
Lord Paschek’s prepared himself for battle as a single clear “Yes.” rang out from Nikos. It wasn’t loud, but like any competent noble, his entourage had a number of instruments that helped them listen in on others, and all of them were pointed at the deadly party in the middle of the gathering.
The strangely armoured woman jumped down, landing as lightly as she had jumped up, as if she weighed nothing.
“By order of his Imperial Majesty’s Holy Inquisition,” one of the Inquisitors shouted, his voice ringing from wall to wall and making Lord Paschek’s heart skip beats: “seal the room.” Raised high above him was his Inquisitorial Rosette.
“You can’t just…” one of the younger and more brash noble brats began, only to be instantly silenced by near a hundred guns pointing at him. Servants entrances, side doors, emergency escape hatches all closed or were sealed all around the hall.
With every escalating step, Lord Paschek unease grew. Now, he pulled out his plasma pistol. A treasure of his family. “Make ready, everyone.” As any sensible Noble House, his brats were all backing away, swiftly retreating to the gathered might of their family with their minders. Blood was in the air. The only question was whose.
“Inquisitor, this is highly irregular.” The Governor finally replied to the invasion of his space. He was threading through an unseen minefield. Lord Paschek did not envy him his position, in this moment. But he had to answer. He was a planetary Governor, if he didn’t, they’d walk right over all of them and none of the Nobles here would ever forget it.
“We go where our duties take us.” The Inquisitor on the left replied, making clear this was not a matter of discussion. Lord Paschek finally got an update on him, marking the man as Inquisitor Hartmann of the Ordo Hereticus.
“Heretics, here?” he softy mumbled, so quietly only his Lady and the Guard Captain heard him. His guards stiffened further, and adjusted formation. It was only a little, but to those who understood battle, it was more than enough. A number of escorts all around the room were doing the same, as his observer above showed, and others were taking their cue from the more acute among them.
No one said the Inquisitors name or named his Ordos, but now guns were turned every which way.
“Lady” Nikos’s party was small. Eleven colourful figures, all still armed, and about thirty servants. Three groups of servants advanced now, carrying large cases. They opened them, and started assembling poles with gilded skulls at them. They looked almost like company banners.
There was a whispered conversation between Nikos, the Admiral and the Inquisitors. Upon its end, the Admiral stepped forward: “I require the services of Cleric to bless this endeavour.”
There was a sputter from the Ecclesiarchy contingent. The Hierophant of Nova Castillia boomed:
“I do not know what manner of deed is this, but I will not bless any act merely on your say so!” He boomed.
“And mine?” The other Inquisitor asked calmly.
The Hierophant paused. “My Lord, I would not question your wisdom. Do you say this is for the good of the Emperor?”
“I say it will be, one way or another.” The Inquisitor replied, his eyes glancing from Hierophant to Nikos.
The elderly Hierophant firmly nodded, drawing his own pistol. “We live to serve. Calum.”
A Cleric dressed in the formal robes of the Ecclesiarchy stepped out of the crowd, lit censor in hand. He approached the Admiral and was directed towards “Lady” Nikos. Her servants had assembled several poles, connecting their tops with shimmering cloth walls that hung above head height. Diagonal lines of cable or rope were strung between the six poles as well. Six of the colourful- Lord Paschek’s pad updated with the designation: Hunters. Six of the Hunters grabbed a pole each.
The Cleric took position right outside the six sided shape formed by the pole bearers, as they pulled the lines and shimmering cloth tight. The fires within the swinging censor leaped up as the Cleric poured in more holy oil and added blessed incense. He began to recite a Litany for the Faithful. More pious members of the Court, or those wishing to appear such, joined in.
The final part of this whole ritual was pulled out of a massively secured chest with multiple heavy locks, by Nikos herself. She hung a large golden bell at the crossing of all the lines. After a short talk with her, the Cleric started walking around the pole bearers. They in turn each picked up their pole with two hands, holding it before them like a flag. Each one of them took a single step forward, moving in a circle opposite from the Cleric. The poles rose, they fell. The bell rang. It was unnaturally loud.
The Inquisitors watched the ritual like starving dogs, just waiting to jump on them. Lord Paschek’s spotted two tame witches among the escorts, each one focused on the circle of hunters.
Gasps exploded around the hall as each of the six began to leak light. At first, it was hard to tell if it was just some hidden lumen, some technological trick, but soon enough fields of power engulfed each one. Each a different colour, not just red or blue or green, but shades of cerulean and carmine, and others that defied his description. More than a dozen shots rang out, striking the pole bearers. Not one of them so much as flinched.
Nikos however reached out, clenching a fist. Curses exploded from the shooters as their weapons were suddenly crushed by an invisible force. Neither of the Inquisitors reacted.
A visiting Navigator was frenetically whispering into the ear of a Captain of the Governor’s guard, eyes wide in disbelief. The news spread on the wings of rumours and whispers, amidst shouts of Sorcery kept at bay only by the Inquisitorial presence.
“Not witches. Not psykers.” the news ran around the room.
Several brawls broke out, where more zealous members had to be wrestled down before they started a massive firelight. The Hierophant was carved from marble, frozen in place, his eyes blazing with zeal and conviction. This ritual would prove itself part of the Imperial Creed, or he would try to purge the very Inquisitors, if he had to.
With every step, the whole pavilion rose and fell, each stop of the poles on the floor echoing just before the bell. His Lady Wife clutched her hands and Lord Paschek’s was gratified to see she was not outwardly shaking. Space was rapidly clearing around the suspect ritual and Lord Paschek’s was sure to note who fled, and who held their ground. His family was among the few who did.
This went on for almost five minutes by the chromo, the sound growing and growing, until he could feel the bell ringing in his chest.
Suddenly, the bell burst into multicolour flame, the final note echoing out in among the fires. The lines snapped, the shimmering fabric tore and each pole was pulled apart, slamming into the floor at the same time as the bell hit the ground silently and in tune with the knees of the pole bearers. Yet before the bell fell Nikos turned and threw. Her spear flew like a bolter shell, nearly invisible to the eye apart from the red trail it left.
It slammed into the middle of House Provarch, one of the houses that oversaw Hive Magnagorsk. Its patriarch was the leader of one of its infamous foundry guilds. The spear went right through all of his protections, curving in the air impossibly and stabbing him through the heart in an instant. It was long enough that it had pinned him in place, the tip embedded in the floor, the butt still sticking out of his chest.
The entire Court froze. The voice fit for the frost outside, Nikos declared her accusation for all to hear: “Demon.”
The whole hall hung at the edge of a knife, violence about to erupt. Then the impaled patriarch started laughing. It pulled the spear out of its chest and saluted Nikos. Every single member of House Provarch changed everyone around them, their voices screaming the same heretical battle cry:
“For Khorne! Blood! Blood for the Blood God!”
Nor were they alone. Several parties around the hall erupted into sudden violence to cries of “Death! Death to the servants of the Corpse God!”
Violence erupted through the room as every loyal soul answered them: “FOR THE EMPEROR!”
The fight was quick and brutal. The enemy was outnumbered more than ten to one, and where a few of its champions stepped forth, they were met by Inquisitorial Acolytes and put down.
A frantic two minutes after Lady Nikos's divination ritual revealed the traitors, the battle was over. Lord Paschek was never in any true danger.
It left a stunned Court that couldn’t quite believe they’d had so many traitors in their midst. Most falling over themselves to decry the heretics.
Lord Raffael Paschek and his family were not among them. No Noble House could keep their hands fully clean and retain their station. It just wasn’t how it was done. Trying was inviting competitors and rivals to shoot past them and crush the foolish house.
However, House Paschek’s indiscretions were with Xenos and the trade and smuggling of proscribed weapons and armour belonging to them, not of a heretical nature. That did not mean they were safe from the Inquisitors, but perhaps that, they had less to fear from these ones.
Everyone was suspect and everyone was getting interviewed and cleared by Inquisitorial guards swarming into the hall. So long as they did not have to face a round with a proper Interrogator the nobility would grit their teeth and bear it. Objecting after heretics had been revealed in their midst was a quick path to summary execution.
Of the Inquisitors, one was clearly unhappy. Furious at the traitors, his face stuck in a severe scowl. The other was thoughtful, letting the wrathful Ordo Hereticus Inquisitor take charge of the situation while the Malleus Inquisitor spoke to Lady Nikos.
Unless Lord Raffael Paschek was severely mistaken, it would be Lady Nikos in truth, before the year was out. “Assuming negotiations over her Writ of Nobility did not grow overlong.”
In the fighting, his guards had downed several heretics, but he himself didn’t get a chance to shoot. Which was as it should be. Lord Paschek was less sanguine to have Nikos walk the hall under escort, holding the remains of the bell. It vibrated as she passed some, and every time it did, they were pulled out of their positions to join a short line to be given extra attention and detention by the Inquisition.
As she passed him and his, two of his grandchildren were among those chosen.
Lord Raffael Paschek stomach plummeted. Had he truly missed something? Were they heretics, traitors, corrupted?
It was only in examining those picked out, that he found a communality. The entire officer corps of the Volg 162th Regiment was pulled into line. The official line was they’d fought a police action on Zumthor, suppressing dissidents. But Lord Paschek network had informed him of the truth: they fought cultists and their summoned masters.
Chaos exposure. The Hunter Lady and her divination were picking out those who’d been exposed to the Ruinous powers.
“But my own family? How? When?” Neither of them had been off world. Or had any dealings with House Provarch.
In the middle of all this, a messenger arrived before Lord Paschek. He glanced at the missive in confusion. Then burst into laughter. Written upon the classical missive was an order for 100 000 flack jackets. Singed by and under the seal of Lady Pyrrha Nikos.
“Something amuses you, my heart?” His Lady wife asked. He showed her the missive so she could read for herself. 100 000 was nothing to the tithe, but not an inconsiderable chunk of their yearly excess production. Yet he was minded to allow it. At a discount, usually reserved for allies.
After all, the Lady had just done everyone in this room a favour by exposing the rot in their midst. Someone with such precise Divination that might not be actual Witchery would make for an excellent ally.
If she had a good head on her shoulders. No amount of martial and economic acuity would make up for fools blind to the true rules of the games of Nobility.
“You’re inclined to grant it?” She asked.
“As repayment.” And a first step, he did not add. If it turned out that House Nikos was not a worthy ally, 25% of their yearly surplus would not be too heavy a blow. Even at a discount. And it would leave Lord Paschek with room to back out of any closer ties.
“But if they are worthy…”
Things were getting exciting again.
***
As for Pyrrha, she walked among the nobility and picked out those who bore the taint of Chaos on them. The ritual, the bell? All of it was just theatre. To soothe and fit into their priesthood, into familiar grooves. After all, divination through prayer wasn’t witchery.
The idea, the insistence that it all cost, that the specially crafted bell, poles, shimmering silks treated with just a bit of Dust were all needed? They were all obfuscation for the truth. The truth was much simpler: the Hunters were just a fraction of those with awoken Aura’s among the people of Sanctuary. They needed more than Hunters and Huntresses. They needed Dust Smiths and more than that? They needed those with the gift, the Semblance to see into the Warp. To see souls. All of Sanctuary only had three so gifted, and only one of them was a Hunter.
Hiding that, and who it was, was what all this theatre was really about. In truth, none of it had mattered, except as disinformation and a distraction.
While everyone was busy with the “ritual”, Oskar had calmly picked them out, updating Pyrrha on their targets. She was the one making the bell vibrate. The marks she needed were already on her helmet display.
Every soul she picked up would likely go under the tender mercies of the Inquisition. She regretted that. Many of them were innocent of anything more than being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Witnessing something wrong, or touching the wrong artefact. The vast majority of them were probably still loyal.
It didn’t matter. In an ideal world her Hunters and healers would examine them for signs for corruption without torturing anyone. But that was not this world.
“Oh good Brothers, how I miss my home. Even the Grimm. The monsters here may at times look human, but some are worse than those.”
Pyrrha trudged on, her back straight, standing tall. For Sanctuary, for her people, she would endure this stain on her soul. At the very least, there were plenty of battlefields ahead, where she could find some measure of redemption saving lives, instead of dooming them.
***
To that last thought at least, the faint presence deep in the Warp felt approval, stuck as She was within this foul cage. It was still a better fate than the folly that had befallen so many of Her people.