Secret War: Warhammer 40,000 - Ben Agar (novels in english .txt) 📗

'Sorry to hear that, my friend. Master Taryst is up in his grotto waiting for you."

Then Barhurst turned to Elandria and me, smiling smugly. "And you two know the drill."

I sighed, yes I frigging know, do you need to remind me every single time? I thought, and my teeth clenched.

Hesitantly, I unstrapped my sheathed sword, placed it on the nearby table and slipped off my wrist-mounted throwing knife compartments. I took my autopistol from my shoulder holster, then lastly and most hesitantly: my right boot, which contained the hidden knife.

Elandria did it with even more aversion than I: letting go of her twin swords, her autopistol and knife.

"Good!" said Barhurst. "You can head on up now."

And just to make sure, we had to file through a metal detector.

Every single damn day for six months, we went through this shit. Saying it was quite depressing was a frigging understatement.

I might have to start on Obscura just to get over this monotony.

I shook away the thought. I have seen the damage that the drug can do. I have been through the damage it could do, and I will never go through that again.

Never.

 

In silence, we rode the up elevator the three hundred stories of Taryst's tower. On a hive world like Omnartus, buildings of such excessive calibre were almost a given. I was from an Agri world, though it was not without great cities of its own. Varander, the capital of my home country: Velrosia was a bustling, beautiful metropolis. Varander sat on the north coast of lake Varander. A lake was so large it could be classed as a sea. I spent the majority of my teenage years living there.

I missed Varander. The last I had seen the city, it was reduced to rubble.

Then there was Varanier, the capital of Elbyra's largest nation: Maranger. That was a fantastic city, harsh and sparse. It was a metropolis of granite and grit, an embodiment of its people.

Neither city was on terms with even the smallest of hives. Many packed ten times the population of Elbyra into an area the size of a Varanderian suburb.

Omnartus was dead. Millennia of intense colonisation, mining and pollution had destroyed its ecosystem. But when we rode this elevator, it would make my dreary days worth it. As we rose high enough to emerge from the pollution, I would glimpse the might of nature. That despite humanity's wanton destruction, here still held a beauty of its own. The sun dominated, and in the distance, the peaks of Omnartus' many mountains broke through to the clear air, like icy white islands in a sea of black and brown. But despite everything, each mountaintop contained life: a one in a million plant had the sheer power and audacity to survive in below zero temperatures. That it thrived despite the odds was a testament.

Of course, I kept this romanticism private; no self-serving mercenary should be like this. Despite having seen so much death and grim darkness, I still held onto slight aspects of my sixteen-year-old self, the foolish, naive me, before being forced to find out how horrible it is to live in this galaxy. That was why I was having second thoughts; I was beginning to doubt whether I could handle the damage this life could cause, physical and mental.

No, the damage it will cause.

I sighed, attention stapled to the world outside, hoping like hell my back facing Elandria and Garrakson was enough to hide my emotions.

Then it happened, what I dreaded most: the end of the journey.

"300th story; Master Taryst's living quarters," said the elevator's pre-programmed, monotone voice as the ascent abruptly stopped. "Restricted access, retinal scan required."

My jaw clenched, and I looked up, seeing the three cameras crowding the elevator with their damnable presence.

Surely Taryst was watching the feed? Surely over the dozens of times we have been up here, the Rogue Trader could discern who the hell we were?

I could tell Garrakson shared my teeth grinding frustration; the ex-guardsman stood and waited for about half a minute. Then with a heavy sigh, he pushed his face into the scanner.

"Employee 568; identified as Jeurat Garrakson," said the computer. "Access granted."

The doors slid open, and we filed out.

We entered Taryst's lavish living quarters. Elandria in the middle; Garrakson and I on her flanks. Red dominated Taryst's little world, a deep, bloody crimson.

The windowless corridor was five metres wide and about fifteen in length. At the end was a thick crimson and gold curtain. I had never been through those curtains. Taryst would always meet us out here. I knew Garrakson had, and I was sorely tempted to ask the ex-guardsman but could not pluck up the courage. Well, him and Glaitis.

Two straight-backed guards stood in front of the curtains. They were in golden, ostentatiously emblazoned carapace armour; they held equally fancy hellguns. I had never seen their faces nor talked to them, but I could not help admire their discipline and stoicism.

Curiosity ate at me. What was beyond the curtains? It could be anything: a secret shrine dedicated to the Ruinous Powers? Or perhaps a den of sin and hedonism? (That could be a shrine to one god, but I would rather keep from uttering its name)

But I was not sure if I wanted to know. No, I wanted to see, but whether I should was an entirely different question.

I was finding Ignorance was very much bliss in this galaxy (which is ironically against Glaitis' teachings)

I sighed. It was far too late for that; I had long passed that event horizon. Short of having myself lobotomised, there was no going back.

Just like my dear old damnable dad.

"GREETINGS, MY DEAR FRIENDS!" The deep voice abruptly boomed, and the boss himself flourished out of the curtains.

I winced, not in fright but contempt. Every time Taryst would greet us this way. And it every single time, it smacked of utterly forced, fake enthusiasm.

In all honesty, I had come to suspect Taryst of withholding secrets right from my first week of employment, and how could I bloody not? Even if I had told Glaitis' then, it would have been too late in her lofty opinion.

"My friends!' he echoed as he approached us. "My friends!"

Taryst stood over two metres tall. He was big-boned and corded with muscle; he cut an intimidating figure.

His strong-jawed face was plain. His tanned skin, complemented by a finely maintained black moustache and goatee. His smile glaringly bright and, like his greeting, fake.

During the months, I noticed Taryst had aged; now, there were bags under his eyes and wrinkles here and there. Being utterly paranoid all the time would do that.

I wouldn't trust him as far as I could frigging throw him.

"Attelus, Jeurat!" Taryst cried as he came close, his two guards in tow. He paused at Elandria and, with surprising dexterity, eclipsed her hand in his, then lightly kissed the back of it. "Mamzel Elandria, what news have you brought me today?"

My jaw set as I saw Elandria's pale skin blushing like mad.

Garrakson cleared his throat; he was the only one used to the Rogue Traders over the top extroversion. "My lord, we have arrived at yet another dead end."

Almost violently, Taryst let go of Elandria's hand. He stood and turned on his heels; his back faced us. "And Callague, Javus?"

"I am not sure, sir."

Taryst spun on Garrakson. "And what does 'I am not sure' mean?"

Garrakson shrugged. "I don't know, sir, meaning that they are either still lying in the pools of blood we left them in or in a Magistratum mortuary either/or."

His dead tone shocked me so much my jaw dropped.

Taryst grimaced slightly and, for a second, looked his three hundred years.

"I-I am sorry to hear that."

Garrakson stayed stoic, kept his gaze locked to Taryst's.

Taryst flinched away. "And as well as no news on your target?"

"Zilch," answered Garrakson. "No sign of this Brutis 'Bones' yet sir, he is quite the enigma."

Now that is the frigging understatement of the millennia, I thought.

"Then what exactly happened?"

Garrakson sniffed. "They went immediately hostile, sir; ambushing us as we entered their base of operations, even with our cover. We managed to fight our way to their cogitator bank but found the memory all wiped. I haven't seen such ferocity since I fought in the guard, sir. From what I gathered, if we captured and tried to interrogate one of the hammers, we would be wasting our time. They were like cultists, sir. This Brutis "bones" must be getting very influential in the local gangs if they will fight for him like that. The crazy bastards."

Taryst looked desperately at Elandria and me.

"And you two agree?"

Elandria nodded and blushed to the floor. My jaw set again, and I said simply, "yes."

I could not bother with more detail; I just wanted to get away from Taryst.

Taryst grimaced disapprovingly.

"Alright, another dead end it is then!" he exclaimed with forced humour. "And quite literally too!"

The only one laughing was Elandria, both Garrakson and I, not so amused.

"Okay then, and I thank you all for the update, and I apologise for Callague and Jarvus; they were good men." Then he turned away and began back to his curtains. "Dismissed, all."

"Oh, and young Attelus," he said, suddenly stopping his tracks and making me halt in mine. "Come! I very much wish to speak to you!"

That was the last thing I wanted to hear.

 

Chapter 2

I sighed while watching Taryst disappear between the curtains. I needed a drag of Lho almost as much as I did not want to follow that literal embodiment of psychotic paranoia.

I slipped out my ceramic box of Lho sticks from my flak jacket pocket and eyed the two guards while slowly beginning to open it.

They just stood there silent, deathly still.

I carried on, attention fixed on the guards, more interested in what they would do than the smoking itself. I opened the case, tugged out one lho: put it in my mouth, then pulled out my igniter.

I hesitated halfway through the movement, expecting the guards to do something.

No, still motionless.

I shrugged and lit the Lho.

I inhaled the smoke and sighed it out, gladdened my stupidity did not cause my torso to be bisected by laser fire and that, perhaps paranoia had not entirely taken Taryst's mind...Yet.

I did not understand why Taryst had those two standing there. I had only seen such ostentatious bodyguards accompany planetary Governors or Lord Generals; perhaps he wanted to state that he too was deserving of such charges as those great and mighty servants of the Imperium? Being a great and almighty Rogue Trader and all.

Well, actually, perhaps so. At least unlike many Lord Generals and Lord Governors out there (and especially the latter), Taryst had earned this power, this prestige. According to the research I had garnered, I would not put it past Taryst to have that doctored.

I took another inhale and blew out the sweet smoke. Why do you want to talk to me, Taryst? So many reasons flew through my thoughts then, each more obvious than the last and even more dodgy than the one before.

I pulled out the Lho between index finger and thumb, eyeing those still guards once more and found I envied them. Life for those two idiots seemed so simple; you stand and guard. Did they have to worry about political intrigue? No.