usually stagnant sewer water about their shins.
Something was coming this way, swimming this way.
The mutants were the first to react, to turn, to look at each other in pale-faced horror… and to
run. One of them slipped through Grayle’s fingers, but the other was caught by Barreski and pinned
against the wall.
“What is it?” the Ice Warrior yelled in the mutant’s face. “What are you afraid of?”
“And did you bring us down here on purpose?” spat Blonsky. “Were you leading us to it?” The
mutant couldn’t answer, could only stare and babble and whimper and kick in a futile attempt to
shake off Barreski’s grip.
And then a miniature tidal wave slapped out from the opening of a nearby side tunnel, to be
followed an instant later by a body: green, scaly, sinewy, bristling with eyes and teeth. It leapt into
the tunnel, almost bounced off the wall, landed on its feet, and oriented itself with incredible speed
as it sighted its prey.
And then the monster was upon them.
Steele had been alone for almost an hour.
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He knew this because his internal chrono told him so; it had kept him horribly aware of every
second that had passed. And because of that drip, that infernal drip, marking off the slow passage of
time, one beat every two point four seconds, a total of fourteen hundred and sixteen drips so far.
He half-stood, stooped, in his heavy chains, his spine aching fit to break, and he prayed to the
Emperor, and silently cajoled the machine-spirits in his bionic eye, but they were deaf to his pleas,
those same two digits frozen in the HUD.
Thirty-five seconds…
He heard footsteps on the steps outside, and he knew that his time was up.
A small, square panel in his cell door slid open, and light spilled in, almost blinding Steele after
so long in the dark. A cultist peered in through the hole, satisfied himself that the prisoner was still
bound, and opened a heavy lock.
The door creaked open to reveal a tall, thin figure standing on the threshold. Like Steele before
him, this new arrival had to stoop to enter the cell; there was hardly any space between the two of
them as he perched on a narrow ledge in the wall opposite the colonel, arms folded casually, a smug
smile twisting his lips.
He was no longer backlit now, and Steele saw him properly for the first time, could make out his
pinched features. The newcomer’s eyes were like deep black holes, into which Steele felt he could
almost have fallen. He sported no visible mutations, but he wore the black robes of a cultist. His
hood was folded back, to show off an elaborate tattoo that spread like a spider’s web across his face,
over his shaved head, behind his ears and down his neck. He also wore a golden sash, and a
general’s shoulder flash on his right shoulder only — and he carried an ornate sceptre with the most
vile obscenities carved into it: purloined and makeshift symbols of rank for a leader whose army
barely acknowledged the concept.
“Let me introduce myself,” he said in a voice as smooth as silk. “I am the ruler of this hive by
right of conquest. I am the favoured of the Chaos gods, a high priest in their service. I am your
jailer, your interrogator, and perhaps in time your executioner. I am all of these things and more —
but the one thing you need to know about me, the most important fact in your life right now, is that I
am your new, your only, master.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” said Steele, not bothering to disguise the contempt in his voice.
“You’re Mangellan.”
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Time to Destruction of Cressida: 12.12.08
The creature was moving so fast they barely had time to react.
It came surfing towards them on the shallow sewer water. Then it flexed its stumpy legs and its
prehensile tail, and sprang into their midst, shrugging off Pozhar and Anakora’s las-fire. The Ice
Warriors scattered as best they could, but the tunnel was narrow, confining. The creature lashed out
at them with claws and fangs; its mouth was wide, incredibly wide, its teeth like chainsword blades.
It almost caught Gavotski’s arm in its jaws, but he pulled away in time.
The creature smacked back into the water on its stomach — its natural orientation, Barreski
realised. It was like an alligator, its body elongated and scaled, but its back was a mess of spines,
and its head a splatter of misshapen, rheumy eyes.
It reared up again. He felt its hot, fetid breath and its spittle on his face, and he grabbed the
mutant he had been holding, swung it around and gave it a push.
The mutant screamed as it stumbled into the sewer creature — which, not questioning its good
fortune, immediately sank its claws into the mutant’s shoulders, clamped its jaws over its head and
dived back down into the water with it.
This gave the Ice Warriors time to regroup, to start firing in earnest. The creature hardly seemed
to notice. It tore the mutant’s head from its shoulders, and threw back its own head with a
triumphant roar, showering the walls with blood.
But if the Ice Warriors had hoped that one kill might satisfy its appetite, they were about to be
sorely disappointed.
“Colonel Stanislev Steele,” recited Steele, “officer in command of the Valhallan 319th regiment of
the Imperial Guard — and that’s all you’re going to get from me.”
“A regimental commander, hmm?” said Mangellan, the smirk still on his lips. “Should I be
honoured that they sent you to fight me? Or should I feel slighted that, apparently, you only brought
a handful of men with you?”
Steele snarled back at his captor, baring his teeth. “You should feel afraid! When I get out of
these chains—”
“Oh yes,” said Mangellan, “you would like to be free, wouldn’t you? Isn’t that what we all want,
ultimately? To be free of the chains that bind us?”
“All I want,” growled Steele, “is to do my duty to the Emperor.”
“And you serve him well. You have done your best. You made it a lot further into my hive than I
would have thought possible. You are evidently a skilled combatant, and a great leader. How, then,
does your god repay your devotion?”
“The Emperor provides all we need.”
“How does it feel, Colonel Steele, to know that he thinks so little of your life as to waste it on a
fool’s errand?”
“It is never a waste to fight for order, to strike a blow against your philosophy.”
“Oh, I know why you’re here. It seems that Confessor Wollkenden’s opinion of his own
importance is not quite as inflated as I had believed.”
Steele tightened at the mention of the confessor’s name. He couldn’t help himself.
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“Oh yes,” said Mangellan, basking in the reaction, “I thought that might get your attention.
Wollkenden is here. He is alive. We have spoken many times, he and I. You can see for yourself
soon. I will bring you face to face with the man for whom you were prepared to sacrifice yourself. It
should prove an interesting meeting.”
“Shall I cut him, master? Shall I make him talk?”
Steele’s glare had been fixed on Mangellan; he hadn’t noticed another arrival. It had pushed its
way through the traitors outside, and stood now in the doorway to the cell: a black-robed mutant,
short and stooped, with lank black hair hanging over its sloping brow, tufts of grey fur sprouting
from its ears, its eyebrows, its neck. It was carrying a long-bladed, blood-caked knife, fingering its
edges almost lovingly.
“There will be no need for that, Furst,” said Mangellan. “Colonel Steele is not our prisoner, he is
our guest.”
“Then unchain me,” suggested Steele, “and let me show you how a Valhallan Ice Warrior repays
your hospitality.”
“And I have no questions to ask him,” Mangellan continued as if the colonel had not spoken. “I
know why he came here, and I suspect that I know as well as he does the whereabouts of his
troopers. They will be cowering out there in the city somewhere, plucking up the courage to attempt
to approach my Ice Palace again.”
Had Steele’s bionic eye been working, he would have discharged it into Mangellan’s face right
then. It was a good thing, then, that it wasn’t. He might have maimed his foe, gained some
satisfaction, but it wouldn’t have helped him in the long term. He had to keep Mangellan talking,
await his moment — and hope that, when that moment came, he would be ready. Thirty-five
seconds…
“Then why am I alive?” he asked. “If you don’t want anything from me…”
“You do not question the high priest!” spat the stunted mutant, Furst, hopping from foot to foot
as he became agitated, panting with the effort.
“It’s all right, Furst,” said Mangellan, sounding a little weary at the interruption. “I am quite
happy to tell Colonel Steele all he wishes to know. That is why I came here, after all: to talk with
him, to reassure him.”
He looked directly at Steele, and something glinted in the black depths of his eyes as he
concluded, “To invite him to join our cause.”
“Concentrate your fire,” yelled Gavotski. “Try to burn through its hide!”
The sewer creature had reared up again, its broad mouth stretched into a great, keening howl —
of defiance or of pain, it was impossible to tell.
It was caught, dazed, confused, swaying for an instant in a criss-cross of las-beams, and
Mikhaelev dared hope that it might succumb, might fall, might at least err on the side of caution and
flee — but then it chose its target, and it lashed out.
Palinev dived out of the creature’s way. Its snout smacked hard into the tunnel wall, so hard that
it seemed like its neck must have broken. No such luck, though. It hit the water on its stomach, and
the head of its previous victim, the luckless mutant, was tossed on a wave born of the impact.
The creature was stunned, immobile, its back crowning the water like a miniature island,
covered in thorns. The Ice Warriors pressed their advantage, and the scales at the base of the
creature’s spines began to bubble and blacken in their beams. Its tail thrashed helplessly, and
Anakora moved in, thrusting her bayonet downwards at it, attempting to pin it. Her aim was true,
but her broken blade too weak for the task.
The creature was recovering, raising its head so that its scalp formed another little island, its
many eyes glaring in all directions so that it was impossible to work out which way it would go,
who it would target next.
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Suddenly, Anakora was yanked off her feet. As she landed heavily, Mikhaelev, behind her,
caught a glimpse of the great tail looped round her ankles. The creature was twisting back on itself,
with incredible agility and litheness, bending double to reach its ensnared, floundering victim.
Mikhaelev was about to fire again when his line of sight was blocked by Pozhar, who threw
himself onto the sewer creature’s back with a zeal of which the late Trooper Borscz would surely
have approved of. He found an eye with his knife, and punctured it with a jab, eliciting another howl
— and the creature relaxed its grip on Anakora to deal with the more immediate threat.
It bucked and squirmed beneath the young trooper’s weight; Pozhar let out a groan as a spine
slipped through his greatcoat and into his stomach. Then he slid into the water, winded, and
Anakora was trying to pull him clear, to return the favour he had done for her, but the creature had
reared up again, was looming over the pair of them.
Mikhaelev’s hand was in the pocket of his greatcoat, fingering a hard, cylindrical object, one he
had kept ready for just such an occasion. It would be risky to use it in this confined space —
especially for Anakora and Pozhar — but, unless he did something, his two comrades were dead
anyway, and he had a perfect shot.
“Demolition charge!” he yelled as he lobbed the device. His aim and his timing could not have
been better. The charge disappeared between the creature’s teeth, bounced off its tongue… and
Mikhaelev was running, as were the other Ice Warriors — six of them, at least. The remaining two
were still cornered, helpless.
The blast, when it came, filled Mikhaelev’s ears, shook the tunnel around him and splattered his
back with chunks of something soft and moist. But it didn’t lift him from his feet, and it didn’t bring
down the roof — and when he stopped, when he turned, when he looked, Anakora and Pozhar were
still alive, covered in the blood and the guts and the sizzling flesh of the monster that had menaced
them…
…the monster that, if it hadn’t swallowed his charge outright, or found it lodged in its throat,
must have closed its mouth reflexively around it, and contained the brunt of the explosion, as
Mikhaelev had prayed it might, within itself.
Barreski punched the air, let out a whoop of delight, and clapped Mikhaelev on the back.
“Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” said Grayle with a mock frown, as he brushed
clinging, rancid lumps of meat from his hat and his coat. “You know, after sloshing my way through
this hive’s sewer system for about an hour and a half, I didn’t think it was possible to smell any
worse. Obviously, my mistake.”
“Unfortunately,” said Gavotski grimly, “we do have a more pressing problem than your personal
hygiene, Grayle.”
Blonsky spelled it out, “We’ve lost our guides, both of them.”
“And with them,” sighed Mikhaelev, “our way into the Ice Palace.”
Steele laughed in Mangellan’s face. It seemed the only rational thing to do.
“You’re insane!” he accused the high priest. “Well, of course you are, that goes with the
territory — but do you really expect an officer of the Imperium to just… to…?”
Mangellan was unfazed. “Many of us here were once officers in your Imperium,” he reminded
his prisoner. “You know that. Of course, the idea of joining me is abhorrent to you. You have been
brought up, conditioned, to look at the universe in one way, and one way only: the Imperium’s
way.”
“There is no other way,” Steele growled. “At least, none that bear thinking about.”
“Ah yes,” said Mangellan, “that is what they tell you, isn’t it? That you mustn’t think about it,
that the knowledge itself is forbidden. Don’t you wonder why they tell you that. Colonel Steele?
Don’t you wonder if there could be more to life than following orders, being shipped from one war
88
zone to another? Have you asked yourself what they are keeping from you, what they are so afraid
you might learn?”
“Let me cut him, master,” whined Furst, his knife trembling in his hand as if it were all he could
