shrapnel flew from the clash, and the beast's huge strength nearly struck it from my hand. I jumped back a pace or two from the next whistling bow. My head was swimming. Was it the loss of blood or the after-effects of that seductive book?
Mandragore was incandescent with fury now. I was proving to be annoy-ingly difficult to slay – for a mere mortal.
I had a dread feeling it wouldn't last.
He rushed me again, towering over me, and I managed to deflect the force of the chain-axe. But immediately he brought the butt of the weapon's long haft around and struck me in the chest, sending me flying. I actually left the ground and cleared several metres.
I landed hard on my injured shoulder. The pain rendered me insensible for a second. That was all he needed.
He crossed the blood-flecked tiles to me in two strides, the axe rising in the air as his growl rose in pitch. With a flailing motion, I kicked the Necroteuch towards him. It struck the toe of one great boot.
'Don't forget what you came for, abomination!' I rasped out.
Mandragore Carrion – son of Fulgrim, worthy of Slaanesh, champion of the Emperor's Children, killer of the living, defiler of the dead, keeper of secrets – paused. With a hacking laugh, his soulless eyes never leaving me, he stooped for the book.
'You counsel well, inquisitor, for… a…'
His fingers were around the Necroteuch, the metal-shod digits dwarfing it. His voice trailed away. Triumph faded from his hideous face; rage drained away; blood-lust dimmed. His mask of skin hung slack from its sutures. The light in his blood-rimmed eyes dulled.
The Necroteuch sang through every fibre and shred of corrupted being, stealing from him all sense of the outside world.
I stood, unsteadily, flexed my grip on the power sword, and sheared his head from his shoulders.
Before it had even struck the ground, the spinning skull combusted and blazed white hot, dripping liquid flame onto the tiles. The fireball bounced and rolled, rocked over, and consumed itself in a ferocious, dirty fire that swiftly left nothing behind but blackened shards of skull in a smouldering scorch mark.
The body remained standing, burning from within the torso, shooting long tongues of sickly green flame up out of the neck cavity. A column of filthy black smoke rose into the still air. The gaudy robes and cloak quickly caught, and thick flames enfolded the headless, metal rain.
At the last moment, I struck off Mandragore's fist with the sword's bright blade, and the Necroteuch it clutched fell clear of the flames. I felt as though it was pleading with me to take it up again, to immerse myself again in the wonders it contained.
Such wonders. I bent down, torn by duty. The thing should be destroyed, but it held such secrets! Could not the Inquisition, and the Imperium as a whole, benefit from the infinite truths it contained? Had I even the right to destroy something so priceless?
The puritan part of me had no doubt. But another part abhorred the idea of wasting it. Knowledge is knowledge, surely? Evil stems from how knowledge is used. And such knowledge was here…
Perhaps if I read a page or two, I could make a better decision.
I shook my head to cast away the insidious thoughts. The noise of the battle came rushing back. I looked back across the plateau, beyond Man-dragore's upright, burning corpse and the sprawled body of Malahite. The last few pockets of fighting were playing out, and the great tiled platform was littered with dead and debris. Both carrier vehicles were ablaze. The saruthi had gone, taking even their corpses with them. It seemed to me the Gudrunites had overwhelmed the troopers by sheer numbers. Few figures were still standing, and I could see none of my companions.
His regal cloak torn and his face bloodied, Oberon Glaw strode towards me, a laspistol clenched in his right hand.
'Throw that down, Glaw. It's over.'
'For you, yes.' He raised the weapon. A munitions canister on one of the burning carriers ignited and blew the armoured vehicle apart in a stunning conflagration. Flung out by the blast, broken armour plating and sections of track whizzed through the air like missiles. A chunk of trans-axle impaled Lord Glaw through the back of the head. He fell without a sound.
I grabbed a piece of smoking hull plate, and scooped the Necroteuch up on it. I would heed no more of its soft enticements. I let it slide off the makeshift scoop into Mandragore's upright corpse, so that it fell down through the open neck of the blazing armour into the furnace of the torso.
The flames turned red, then darker still. The blaze grew more intense. Something without a mouth screamed.
I limped away from the pyre. Malahite was alive and awake, calling out, 'Locke, please! Please!' in a hoarse voice.
Across the plateau, one of the naval speeders lifted into the air. Gorgone Locke was at the controls, with Dazzo slumped in the seat beside him. In moments, the racing speeder was disappearing over the ragged peaks, away from the plateau, towards the endless beach.
Midas, Bequin, Aemos and Lowink had survived the ordeal and the battle, though all had minor injuries. Two dozen Gudrunites were also still alive, including Jeruss.
Aemos wanted to see to my wound, but I had bound it tight to stanch the flow of blood and I wanted to waste no more time.
'I think it would be prudent to get out of here/ I told them.
Fischig lay on a makeshift stretcher. The saruthi weapon that had obliterated Twane had cost him an arm and half of his face. Mercifully, he was unconscious. Two Gudrunites bore him up.
'It pains me to say this, but we're taking him too/ I told Midas and Jeruss, indicating the collapsed Malahite.
Are you sure?' Betancore asked.
'The Inquisition will want to plunder his brain/
Our ragged, battered party left the dark uplands and retraced our steps to the hazy levels of the beach. The booming had increased in volume and frequency and the sky was growing dark.
'It is as if/ said Aemos ominously, 'this place is coming to an end/
'We don't want to be here when that happens/1 said.
From the beach, we could see the two Imperial frigates and the merchantman had departed. A wind, thick with an afterburn of ammonia, was picking up. Their vacuum suits more or less intact, Midas and Lowink went ahead to recover the gun-cutter.
My vox link crackled. Maxilla's voice suddenly sang out.
'Eisenhorn? For pity's sake, are you there? Are you there? Three ships just left, moving right past me! Conditions are worsening. I cannot stay here much longer. Respond! Please respond!'
'Maxilla! This is Eisenhorn! Can you hear me? We need you to move in and pick us up. We have injuries… Fischig and several others. This whole environment may be collapsing. Repeat, I need you to move the
A moment or two of static. Then his answer.
'As you instruct, Gregor, but it's not going to be easy. Say again, what did you say about Fischig?'
'He's hurt, Maxilla! Come and get us!'
'Hurry!' Bequin shouted over my shoulder. We don't want to be here any more!'
More static. Tell Alizebeth, I agree with that! Ha!'
The echoes, delays and dislocations were catching up with themselves. The
