'The law states that once the eroding hands of time and the elements have made the last names on a field's gravestones illegible, the anonymous dead may be exhumed, the bones buried in a pit, and the field reused.'
'So they tend the field for years until the names can no longer be read?'
He shrugged. 'It's their way. Once the names have vanished, so has the memory, and so has any need for honour. The time's coming for this place. Another year or two, they tell me.'
That struck me as infinitely melancholic. Cadia was a warrior-world, standing guard in the one navigable approach to the warp-tumult of the infamous Eye of Terror. The region, known as the Cadian Gate, is the route of choice for invasions of Chaos, and Cadia is seen by most as the Imperium's first line of defence. It has bred elite troops since it was first colonised, and billions of its sons and daughters have died bravely protecting our culture.
Died bravely… then left to slowly vanish in the desolate fields of their home world.
It was dismal, but probably entirely in keeping with the stoic martial mindset of the Cadians.
Fischig pushed open the heavy axelwood door of the shrine tower and we went inside out of the wind.
The tower was a single chamber, a drum of stone, with weep-hole window slits high up near the summit. A circle of rough wooden pews was arranged around a central altarpiece, above which a massive iron candelabra in the form of a double-headed eagle was suspended on a chain from the beamed roof.
On this dark autumn day, the light from the votive candles fixed amongst the metal feathers of the aquila's unfurled wings was the only
illumination. There was a spare, thin, golden light, an atmosphere of frugality and numinous grace. And a musty stink of rotting axel leaves.
We sat together on a pew, both of us briefly honouring the altar with the sign of the aquila, our hands splayed together against our hearts.
'It's strange/ sighed Fischig after a long pause. 'You sent me out, over a year ago, on yet another quest for signs of that daemonspawn Cherubael. And just when I find a trace, you run into him again, on the other side of the damn sector/
'Strange is possibly not the word I'd use/
'But the coincidence. Is it coincidence?'
'I don't know. It seems so much like it. But… that thing… Cherubael… disarms me so/
'Naturally, old friend/
I shook my head. 'Not because of his power. Not that/
Then what?'
The way he speaks to me. The way he says he's using me/
'Daemon guile!'
'Perhaps. But he knows so much. He knows… ah, damn it! He speaks as if our destinies are irrevocably entwined. Like he matters to me and vice versa/
'He does matter to you/
'I know, I know. As my goal. My prey. My nemesis. But he talks like it's more than that. Like he can see the future, or can read it, or has even been there. He talks to me like… he knows what I'm going to do/
Fischig frowned. And… what do you think that might be?'
I rose and stalked to the altar. 'I have no idea! I can't conceive of doing anything that would please or benefit a daemon! I can't ever imagine myself that insane!'
Trust me, Eisenhorn, if I ever thought you were, I'd shoot you myself/
I glanced back at him. 'Please do/
I halted and looked up into the flickering flames of the candles, seeing themany shadows and possible shadows of myself they cast, interlapping and criss-crossing the stone floor. Like the myriad possibilities of the future. I tried not to look into the thicker, blacker shadows.
The warp-spawned bastard's just playing games with you/ said Fischig. That's all it is. Games to put you off the scent and keep you at bay/
'If that's the case, why does he keep saving my life?'
We went back out into the moorland wind. The moaning of the pylon seemed louder to me now.
'Who's with you?' Fischig asked.
'Aemos, Bequin, Nayl, Medea, Husmaan… and a lad you've not met, Inshabel. We came here directly from Eechan/
'Longride?'
'Best part of six months. We got as far as Mordia on a free trader called the
'Quite an honour.'
'The inquisitor's rosette carries its benefits. But I tell you, the tech-priests of Mars are damned surly company for a two month voyage. I would have gone mad but for Bequin's regicide tournaments.'
'Nayl getting any better?'
'No. I think by now he owes me… what is it? Hmm. His first born and his soul.'
Fischig laughed.
'Oh, it wasn't all so bad. There was one fellow, a veteran princeps from the Titan Legion. Old guy, centuries old. At the point of retirement, like those men ever retire. He was supervising the transfer of the new war-machines. Name of Hekate. We got to drinking some nights. Remind me to tell you some of his war-stories.'
'I will. Come on…'
He had a land speeder parked down off the lane under the swaying axel-trees. We brushed fallen ribbon-leaves off me hood and got in.
'Let me show you what I found. Then we can all meet and greet in a safe place/
'How safe?'
The safest.'
We flew over the moorlands, into the biting winds, hugging the terrain. The light was fading. The grim glory of Cadia was spread out below us. This was the merciless, windblown wilderness mat raised one of the Imperium's hardiest warrior breeds. Here were the scattered islets in the Caducades Sea where they were left naked as pre-pubescents to survive the ritual Month of Making. Here were the hill-forts where the Cadian Youth armies wintered and toughened and waged mock wars on their neighbour forts. Here were the crags, ice-lakes and axel-forests where they learned the arts of camouflage.
Here were the wide, sundered plains where their live firing exercises were staged.
There is a saying: 'If the ammo ain't live, this ain't no Cadian practice'. Right from the time they are issued with their own las-guns, which is about the same time they are given their first primary readers, the young warrior-caste of Cadia are handling live ammunition. Most can fire, and kill, and perform most infantry field drills before they reach the age often standard.
Little wonder that the shock troops of Cadia are among the Imperium's best.
