one another in a slow dance pantomime, while the rest of the men clapped their hands in time to the
beat.
“Literacy is not widespread on Tallarn,” Tyrell said. “Many tribes remember history through
oral traditions, and battles are recounted in war dances.”
Rezail nodded. “The Turenag were once part of the Banna Alliance, but then, something about
the Orakle divided them?”
“The Tallarn,” Tyrell said with a wistful smile, “are always hot-blooded, always fighting, except
in their duty to the Emperor. We almost had a civil war. The two greatest alliances, the Doraha and
the Makali, grew very angry with one another, and they threatened to draw their vassal tribes into
the conflict. If that happened, then over half of Tallarn would still be in blood.”
“But a psyker brokered the truce,” Rezail said. “Right?”
“Yes. In his honour, the tribes created an Orakle of the Emperor, a supreme scholar who would
speak the Emperor’s wisdom. Throughout the galaxy, he would merely be an astropath, but among
my people, the greatest of the astropaths becomes the Orakle, a mouthpiece for the Emperor’s
guidance through the holiest of bonds, the Soul Binding.”
“You believe in the Orakle of the Emperor?”
“Believe? No, but we respect his elected position. He is a man, no more, no less.”
“But some Tallarn venerate him, don’t they?”
“The same way you venerate your Living Saints. The Orakle is a conduit of the Emperor’s will,
no more, no less.”
“But the Turenag don’t see it that way. When the Banna tribe agreed to the creation of an Orakle
of the Emperor, a few tribes split from them on religious principles.”
“Yes, and they formed the heart of the Turenag tribe. Then others joined, all of them believing
the Orakle is a false idol. The Turenag and Banna have been quarrelling ever since.”
Rezail nodded, and continued watching the war dancers. He was exhausted, his mind still
throbbing from the heat. He could have slept where he sat, but there were far too many unanswered
questions.
“Tell be about the Orakle… the one that was murdered.”
“One hundred years ago,” Tyrell said, whispering, “the Orakle of the Emperor was chosen from
the Banna, the first of them to receive that honour. He was a strong man, beloved, and a son to all
Banna. But the Turenag alliance not only refused to recognise him, they said he was warp spawn…
corrupted. The Turenag sent assassins after him and killed the Orakle. It was a blow against all
Banna. They retaliated, slaughtering entire tribes of Turenag in vengeance, and the Turenag
retaliated in turn. At first, the war was only between Turenag and Banna, but then Banna raiders
attacked and supposedly killed a village belonging to Doraha.”
“Supposedly?”
“It was never proven. Some say it was Turenag posing as Banna, to gain more allies. Some say
the Doraha were already helping the Turenag, and the Banna retaliated.”
“So, how did the Commissariat become involved?”
“My tribe, the Hawadi, it was our suggestion.”
“You suggested the Commissariat mediate the matter?” Rezail said. He was surprised. Most
people feared the Commissariat and its rulings, for the fate of worlds often hung in their decisions.
“Tallarn worlds were on the verge of civil war. There was much fighting, much murder, far too
much. Even the Hawadi could not bring peace. The only thing the two tribes respected was the
27
sovereignty of the Aba Aba Mushira. The Commissariat served the Emperor as men of war, not men
of religion.”
“I see,” Rezail said. “So you gambled. You thought that if the Commissariat ruled, then both
sides would be forced to submit to the ruling.”
“Yes, but the Commissariat remained neutral. They executed the agitators on both sides and
issued a Writ Nonculpis for the surviving Banna and Turenag, saying the matter was settled.”
“Not the answer you hoped for.”
“No.”
“Even if the judgement had put an entire tribal alliance to the flame?”
“Better an alliance than the planet. Both Banna and Turenag so believed they were right that
they were willing to risk Exterminatus. The Commissariat was very clear, though, saying that the
Writ Nonculpis was to stop the fighting. There was to be no more civil war; but the fighting
remained, hidden, but there.”
“Aren’t they disobeying the Commissariat?”
“It’s like the promise of salt, commissar. The Writ Nonculpis does not make men honest.”
“I see your point,” Rezail said, watching the dancers swing their blades with poetic grace. “I see
your point.”
8
Turk stood atop the battlement, the fire at his back, and watched the stars. He tried to pretend he was
home again, staring at familiar skies, but the self-deception wouldn’t hold. This sky was too perfect,
too unblemished, to pass for Tallarn’s polluted vistas. It was beautiful, but he could sense its
strangeness. None of the stars called to him as old friends.
At the very least, it dampened the sour knot in his stomach. Turk was argumentative to begin
with, he knew that, and he enjoyed the respect that occasionally accompanied his position. Nisri,
however, seemed determined to undercut him, to remind him that his voice held no sway in
decisions. It was expected given the bloodshed between the two alliances, and while Turk could
justify and reason through his situation, the fact that he was raised to despise the Turenag coloured
his views. The thought of being subordinate to Nisri, a hated enemy, gnawed at him.
“It’s not home, is it?” a woman’s voice asked. “Not quite?”
Turk turned to find Kamala Noore walking up the duckboard ramp that led to his ledge. A chill
ran down Turk’s spine… had she read his mind? Could she do that without him ever knowing?
“I’m not reading your thoughts,” she said quietly. “Your face, however….”
“I apologise.”
“I don’t need an apology,” she said. “I’m used to the reactions. But some company, I’d like
that.” Turk hesitated.
“We don’t have to talk, I promise. Just let me enjoy your company. I’m tired of hiding in my
tent.”
Turk nodded and went back to studying the stars. He could almost feel Kamala sighing, her body
relaxing. She was beautiful, he knew, but she caught him staring before he could look away. “The
Turenag,” he stammered. “How do they—”
“You don’t have to make conversation for my benefit,” she said, blushing.
“I want to know,” Turk said, facing her. “Do the Turenag treat you fairly?”
“No,” she admitted. “I am a vessel through which corruption flows.” She turned to Turk. “How
do I explain this? Ah… do you know the Turenag are so absolute in their faith that they possess no
images of the Emperor? To paint him, sculpt him, or illustrate him in anything but words is to
worship the image and not the power. To record his image is to deny his boundless nature.
28
Omniscience, omnipresence, they cannot be recorded, and to do so is to imply that the Emperor has
limits. It is the Turenag mark of absolute humility and absolute submission.”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
“The Turenag decided that to suggest that our power makes us greater than anyone else is also to
suggest that we are closer to the Emperor in power. That implies that we are somehow closer to He
that cannot be qualified. We become a point of definition, and you can’t have that in respect to the
Emperor.”
“I can see why that can be confusing. Perhaps if you read their minds,” Turk said, straight-faced,
“then it would make more sense.”
Kamala laughed. “A joke, lieutenant-colonel, thank you.”
Turk shrugged, a modest smile on his lips.
“But no,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to read a Turenag’s mind. Some tribes murder their baby
daughters, and I know they kill psyker children when they have a chance.”
“How did you escape?” Turk asked.
“The Inquisition’s Black Ships found me first. I returned to my tribe when they drew up the
regiment. I was battle-trained by then and more than capable of defending myself.”
“Indeed,” Turk said. It was easy to stare into her black eyes and forget her power. Despite
himself, Turk found he was swimming in her gaze, and she in his. It was a pleasant distraction from
the road that he knew lay ahead.
29
CHAPTER FOUR
“As the passage narrows, there is no brother, there is no friend.”
—The Accounts of the Tallarn by Remembrancer Tremault
1
Day Seventy-Three
“You think they forgot about us?”
Sergeant Ballasra knelt down and checked the tracks again: more of Khadar’s indigenous rats,
but a large pack this time.
“The commissar lashed another five men. It’s getting worse at the camp.”
Ballasra sighed and ignored the nattering Guardsman keeping him company in the open desert.
He examined the tracks. There were at least eight different indents in the ground, the only indication
of direction, a spray of sand from where their feet kicked back as they moved. He followed the
tracks, and spotted them walking up the slope of a distant dune. They were too far away to
determine their numbers.
“And water,” the Guardsman moaned. “What I wouldn’t give to fill my bladder with water.”
Ballasra motioned to Private Ignar Chalfous to join him. Chalfous pulled the two dromads by
their reins and approached. They bayed and snapped their hooked beaks in displeasure.
“More of the rats?” Chalfous sighed. “I’m tired of the rats.”
Ballasra scowled at the young soldier. “No, young idiot. We’re not hunting these rats for food.”
“So why are we following them?”
Ballasra turned to the younger soldier and shook his head. “You’re from the city, aren’t you,
boy?”
“Yes. Dasra City in—”
“Yes, yes, fascinating. What do the rats eat? What do they drink?”
“Well, I assume, food and water,” Chalfous said, laughing at his own cunning. Ballasra simply
nodded and waited for him to finish the thought.
“Oh!” Chalfous said, finally understanding. “You’re following them to see if they lead you to
water or scrub.”
Ballasra shook his head. “Your parents must cry themselves to sleep every night,” he muttered.
“Pardon?” Chalfous asked.
“We’d best follow them before night comes,” Ballasra replied, shouldering his lasrifle.
2
Kortan studied the officers as he offered his report. Nobody smiled, and Kortan knew better than to
bring levity to the moment. Everyone appeared on edge and dangerously quiet, trapped in their own
thoughts. He noticed a few angry glances being tossed about… they were losing patience. The last
two months had taken their toll, and they were looking for someone to pay.
“We’re not much better off than before,” Kortan replied. “We’re down to a week of food and
two of water.”
30
“Water reclamation?” Nisri asked, his gaze fixed on the grey washed wall of the single storey
command bunker. Most of the equipment had been turned off, with the exception of a vox and a
single auspex device. It was dark, the lights turned off to conserve energy.
“The solar stills are only collecting eighty quarts a day. That’s twenty gallons, enough drink for
twenty men, forty with rationing,” Kortan said.
“Is someone pilfering water?” Nisri said, exasperated.
“No sir.”
“Then how is this possible?” Nisri barked. “We’ve built over two hundred solar stills. That’s—”
Nisri struggled, trying to think through the maths; he, like everyone else, however, was dehydrated
and unfocused.
“Two hundred quarts, fifty gallons,” Turk said impatiently.
“I know,” Nisri said. “Don’t interrupt me again.” Turk mumbled something, his face marred by
an ugly scowl.
“What was that?” Nisri said. He looked predatory, dangerous.
“I said,” Turk replied slowly, “we wouldn’t be in this predicament had you listened to me two
months ago.”
“This again!” Nisri said. “You would have had us wasting precious resources trying to get at
water that might not even be there. Instead of running out of water in two weeks, we’d be dying of
dehydration now, all to suit your pride.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Turk responded. “If you want me to agree with your decision, then you’d
better make it an order. Until then, you made a mistake. You decided that cutting my authority was
worth more than following a valid suggestion. And now, we might be months away from
dehydration, not weeks!”
“On my father’s blood, lieutenant-colonel, you will keep your mouth shut or I will shoot you for
insubordination.”
“Your father’s blood,” Turk said, sneering. “The same coward who raped and murdered the
women of my tribe?”
It was an instant flashpoint, the room moving from stunned silence into heated action. Nisri and
Turk drew their weapons simultaneously. Men kicked over chairs as they reached for scimitars and
guns. Nubis and the other Banna officers stood in front of Turk, while Nisri’s men guarded him.
Bolters and laspistols were pointing in both directions. Kortan did his best to shrink into the wall.
He didn’t want to take sides.
The room was quiet for a moment, filled only with ragged breathing and angry glares. Knuckles
whitened, and fingers slowly pressed on their triggers.
A pair of las-shots punctured the silence.
Commissar Rezail and Tyrell stood their ground, each one pointing a laspistol at one of the groups
in the command bunker. They had everyone’s attention, the two holes punched into the far wall still
smoking.
“Enough!” Rezail said. His voice was a snarl, perfectly controlled and modulated, as per the
Schola Progenium lessons on speech-craft and intimidation. It was enough to keep everyone’s
attention on him. The angry stares did not diminish, but he could see realisation slowly creep into
their expressions. They were on the edge of a precipice. They knew that, but they didn’t know how
to back away from it.
Rezail finally understood that the purpose of the Hawadi tribe wasn’t just to mediate. It was to
offer both parties an exit from their predicament without losing face. The Tallarn were too proud for
their own good. They dug themselves into deep holes without thinking, and then relied on the
Hawadi, or someone else, to defuse the matter without appearing the fools.
31
What the two factions needed right now, Rezail realised, was a greater concern. If they really
wanted to fight, there was little he could do to stop them from pulling the triggers. But, until then, he
could offer them a greater threat: himself.
“All of you, out!” Rezail barked. “One word of this to the men, one more outburst, and I will
execute you like dogs.”
