Below the peak of one of the largest cones, the landspeeder's rudimentary scanners detected signs of activity as we rode up a long slope of tumbled, desiccated rock. Fischig, Midas and I dismounted from the speeder and clambered up a flinty outcrop to get a better view with our scopes.
In the shadow of the cone was a large settlement… old stone and wood-built structures, mostly ruined, as well as newer, modular habitats made of ceramite. There was machinery down there, generators and other heavy systems at work under tarpaulin canopies. Tall, angled screens of reinforced flak-board had been erected on scaffolding rigs to shield the place from ash-fall. Three speeders and two heavy eight-wheelers were drawn up outside the main habitat units. A few figures moved around the place, too distant to resolve clearly.
'The last survey showed no signs of active vulcanism in this region/ Midas reminded me, echoing an observation Aemos had made on our arrival.
'See there/ I said, indicating a portion of the settlement that ran into the slope of the largest cone. Those old buildings are partially buried in solidified ash. The original settlement predates the activity/
Midas pulled a map-slate from his pocket and whirred through the index. 'North Qualm/ he said. 'One of the settler habitats, a mining town/
We watched for fifteen or twenty minutes, long enough to feel the ground shudder and see a gout of white hot liquid fire spit from one of the cones. Alarms sounded in the settlement below, but were quickly stifled. A rain of wet ash and glowing embers fluttered down across the township and settled like black snow on the flak-board screens.
Why would they persist in working this site with the constant threat of eruption?' Fischig growled.
'Let's take a closer look/1 suggested.
Covering the speeder with foliage, we set off down the forested valley. The ground between the feathery ferns and hard, dry thorn-trees was thick with fungal growth, some of it brightly covered and glossy. Though we worked carefully, we couldn't help kicking up puffs of spores and soredia.
I was wearing my button-sleeve black coat, Fischig his brown body armour, his helmet hooked on his belt, and Midas wore his regular outfit,
though he had replaced his cerise jacket with a short, dark-blue work coat. All of us melted into the forest shadows.
I still wasn't sure why Fischig had come along. After Gudrun, the remit given him by Lord Custodian Carpel seemed done with, but he had refused to return to Hubris. It seemed he trusted my instinct that the matter was far from done with.
We crossed a low stream bed, steaming with hot, pungent water that bubbled up from the vents, and came silently up along the north edge of the settlement. Now the judder of generators could be made out, the distant growl of rock-drills. Guards in khaki drill fatigues worn under spiked and blackened segments of metal body armour wandered the length of an earthwork wall that had been banked up at the edge of the trees, running great bull-cygnids on long chains. The canines were meaty brutes with lolling tongues and beards of spittle. The guards that pulled on their chains carried newly stamped, short-form lasguns on shoulder slings. Their faces were masked behind heavy black rebreathers. Workgangs, some stripped to their leggings in the heat, toiled to sluice the smouldering ash from the flak-board screens with hoses and bucket chains.
Midas pointed out where the edges of the settlement had been ringed with motion detectors and antipersonnel mines. All had been deactivated. The constant tremors had rendered both useless as defences. But there was no mistaking the aura I had felt since we had first begun to approach. A psychic veil utterly enclosed North Qualm.
I took out my scope and played it around the settlement. More guards, many more, and dozens of filth-caked workers, lounging by the entrance to one particularly large modular shed. Several supervisors moved back and forth among the resting work gangs, holding brief conversations and making notations on data-slates. Eight workers emerged from the shed carrying long, stretcher-like trays with high sides covered with clear-plastic wraps. I zoomed the magnification of the scope to get a closer look at the faces of the supervisors. I didn't recognise any of them. They were all dour, scholarly men in grey rainproof overalls.
Something vast suddenly crossed my field of vision. By the time I had reacted and adjusted the magnification, it had passed out of sight into the works shed. I had a brief memory of bright, almost gaudy metal and a shimmering, flowing robe.
'What the hell was that?' I hissed.
Midas looked at me, lowering his scope, actual fear on his face. Fischig also looked disturbed.
'A giant, a horned giant in jewelled metal/ Midas said. 'He came striding out of the modular hab to the left and went straight into the shed. God-Emperor, but it was huge!'
Fischig agreed with a nod. A monster/ he said.
The cones above roared again, and a rain of withering ash fluttered down across the settlement. We shrank back into the thorn-trees. Guard activity seemed to increase.
'Rosethorn,' my vox piped.
'Now is not a good time/ I hissed.
It was Maxilla. He sent one final word and cut off. 'Sanctum/
'Sanctum' was a Glossia codeword that I had given Maxilla before we had left the
Which meant that all of us on the planet were on our own.
Midas caught my sleeve and pointed down at the settlement. The giant had reappeared and stood in plain view at the mouth of the shed. He was well over two metres tall, wrapped in a cloak that seemed to be made of smoke and silk, and his ornately decorated armour and horned helmet were a shocking mixture of chased gold, acidic yellow, glossy purple, and the red of fresh, oxygenated blood. In his ancient armour, the monster looked like he had stood immobile in that spot for a thousand years. Just a glance at him inspired terror and revulsion, involuntary feelings of dread that I could barely repress.
A Space Marine, from the corrupted and damned Astartes. A Chaos Marine.
FOURTEEN
A tale of repression.
Rogue.
Return to the flame hills.
We've not been idle/ Bequin told me with a smirk when we returned to the gun- cutter. It was noon, and river basin was filling with bumping clusters of ball-trees driven off the flint plains by the wind. They drifted over the shingle and splashed trailing roots into the water.
Bequin was dressed in work fatigues, a rebreather slung around her neck, and she carried an autopistol. As Midas and Fischig stowed the speeder under the netting, she led me into the crew- bay and waved the weapon in the direction of a thin, filthy man chained to a cargo-loop with cuff restraints. His hair was matted and his clothes, an assemblage of patched rags, were stiff with caked mud. He looked at me with fierce eyes through a shaggy fringe of wet hair.
There were three of them, maybe more/ Bequin told me. 'Came to take a look at us using the ball-trees as moving cover. The others fled, but I brought him down/
'How?' I asked.
She gave me that look which told me not to keep underestimating her.
'Our intruders from last night?' I wondered aloud. Bequin shrugged.
I walked over to face the captive. 'What's your name?'
'He doesn't say much/ Bequin advised. I told her to move away.
'Name?' I asked again.
Nothing. I paused, collected my mind and then sent a gently probe into the shady
