off his whirring cannon-drum.
'We… we need to regroup,' I said.
'Agreed/ said Fischig.
You have no idea what you're up against, do you?' asked Husmaan.
We all turned. The old skin-hunter from Windhover was stalking down the moor slope towards us, his long-las slung over one crooked arm. Fierce graupel had begun to fleck down from the clouding sky.
'Do you?' he hissed again. I felt Bequin tense.
It wasn't Husmaan.
Husmaan looked at me. White light shone from his eyes. His voice was Prophaniti's.
'Not the slightest clue/ he said. 'You can destroy my physical host, but you cannot break the links to the master/
'Husmaan!' Inshabel cried.
'Not here any more. He was the most open mind, so I took him. He will serve for a while/
I took a step forward. Husmaan raised a hand. 'Don't bother, Eisenhorn/ said Prophaniti. 'I could kill you all here, now… but what's about to happen is far more interesting/
Husmaan, his arms held out from his body and his head back, suddenly rose into the air, dropping his prized long-las. Steadily, he floated away into the sky until he had vanished over the moors into the dawn's counter glow.
'What did he mean?' asked Bequin.
'I don't-'
Floodlights mobbed over the rise and we suddenly heard the clank of armoured tracks.
Twenty Cadian APCs crested the brow, their floods beaming down at us. Cadian shock troops scrambled down the slope, covering us with their guns.
'What the hell?' Nayl cried.
I was stunned. This was the last thing I had expected.
'Inquisitor Eisenhorn/ boomed a vox-amped voice from the lead APC. 'For crimes against the Imperium, for the atrocity at Thracian, for consorting with daemonhosts, you are hereby arrested and condemned to death/
I recognised the voice.
It was Osma.
SIXTEEN
The Hammer of Witches.
Three months in the Carnificina.
Plight from Cadia.
Flanked by six robed interrogators reading aloud from the Books of Pain and the Chapters of Punishment, Inquisitor Leonid Osma came down the moorland slope towards me. Pink dawn light was beginning to spear lengthways across the bleak heath, and the gorse and bracken was stirred by the early morning breeze. Distantly, heath grouse and ptarcerns were whooping and calling to the midwinter sun.
Osma was a well-built, broad-shouldered man in his one fifties. He wore brass power armour that glowed almost orange in the ruddy dawn. Ornate Malleus crests decorated his armour's besagews and poleyns and six purity seals were threaded around his bevor like a floral wreath. A long cloak of white fur played out behind him, brushing the tops of the heather and gorse.
His face was blunt and pugnacious. His eyes were glinting dots set in puffy lids, fringed by heavy, grey eyebrows. His bowl-cut hair was the colour of sword-metal. Some years before, he had lost his lower jaw during a fight with a Khornate berserker. The augmetic replacement was a jutting chin of chrome, linked into his skull by feed tubes and micro-servos. The emblem of the Inquisition rose above his head on a standard mounted between his shoulder blades. In one hand he carried a power hammer, the mark of his ordo.
In the other, a sealed ebony scroll tube. I recognised it at once. A carta extremis.
This is insanity!' Fischig growled. The Cadians around us stiffened and jabbed with their weapons.
'Enough!' I warned Fischig. I turned to my companions. They looked so lost, so miserable, so dismayed.
'We will not fight our own,' I told them. 'Surrender your weapons. I will soon have this laughable error resolved.'
Bequin and Inshabel handed meir weapons to the Cadian guards. Fischig reluctantly allowed the storm troopers to divorce him from his riot-gun. Nayl undipped his drum-cannon's ammo feed, slid out the magazine box and passed mat to the waiting troops, leaving the disabled heavy weapon strapped around his torso on its harness.
I nodded, satisfied. 'Thorn bids Aegis, by cool water, soft,' I whispered into my vox and then turned to meet Osma.
He raised his power hammer in a brief gesture and the mumbling interrogators fell silent and closed their books. 'Gregor Eisenhorn/ he said in precisely enunciated High Formal Gothic, 'In fealty to the God-Emperor, our undying lord, and by the grace of the Golden Throne, in the name of the Ordo Malleus and the Inquisition, I call thee diabolus, and in the testimony of thy crimes, I submit this carta. May Imperial justice account in all balance. The Emperor protects/
I slid my storm-gun out of its holster, ejected the clip and handed it to him grip first.
'I hear full well thy charge and thy words, and make my submission,' I responded in the ancient form. 'May Imperial justice account in all balance. The Emperor protects.'
'Dost thou accept this carta from my hand?'
'I accept it into mine, for that I may prove it thrice false.'
'Dost thou state thy innocence now, at the going off?'
'I state it true and clear. May it be so writ down.'
Vox-drones idling by the shoulders of the interrogators had been recording all this, but the youngest interrogator was transcribing it all with a holoquill into a dispositional slate suspended before him on a grav plate. I noted this detail with some satisfaction.
Preposterous though the charges were, Osma was prosecuting with total and precise formality.
'I ask of thee thy badge of office,' Osma said.
'I deny thy asking. By the code of prejudice, I declare my right to retain my rank until due process is concluded.'
He nodded. His language changed from High Formal to Low Gothic. '1 expected as much. Thank you for avoiding unpleasantness.'
'I don't think I've avoided any unpleasantness, Osma. What I have avoided is bloodshed. This is ridiculous.'
They all say that,' he muttered snidely, turning away.
'No,' I said levelly, stopping him dead. The guilty and the polluted fight. They deny. They straggle. In my lifetime, 1 have brought down nine marked diabolus. None went quietly. Mark that fact in your record/ I said
to the scribing interrogator. 'If I was guilty, I would not be submitting to your process so politely/
'Mark it so!' Osma told his hesitating scribe.
He looked back at me. 'Read the carta, Eisenhorn. You're guilty as sin. This show
