James Swallow - Nemesis

“The Shrouds…” The Master was coming to his feet. “They’ve been

compromised…” His silvered face suddenly turned towards one of the mahoganypanelled

walls, as if he could see right through it.

With a bullet-sharp crack, ancient wood and rigid metals gave way, and a hidden

door slammed open. Beyond it, in the ever-shifting puzzle of the changing corridors,

three figures filled the space. Two wore amber-gold armour chased with white and

black accents, their faces set and grim. They were veteran Space Marines of the VII

Legiones Astartes in full combat plate; but eclipsing their presence was a warrior of

stone cast and cold, steady gaze standing a head higher than both of them.

Rogal Dorn stepped into the Shrouds, his battle gear glittering in the light of the

lume-globes. He cast his gaze around the room with an expression that might have

been disgust, dwelling on Valdor, then the Master, and finally the deep shadows

engulfing the farthest side of the chamber.

It was Siress Venenum who dared to shatter the shocked silence that came in the

wake of Dorn’s intrusion. “Lord Astartes,” she began, desperately trying to rein in

her fear. “This is a sanctum of—”

The Imperial Fist did not even grace her with a look. He advanced towards the

rosewood table and folded his arms across his titanic chest. “Here you are,” he said,

addressing his comments towards Valdor. “I told you our conversation was not

ended, Custodian.”

“You should not be here, Lord Dorn,” he replied.

“Neither should you,” snapped the primarch, his voice like breaking stones. “But

you brought both of us to it. To this… place of subterfuge.” He said the last word as

if it revolted him.

“This place is not within your authority, Astartes.” The voice of the Master of

Assassins was altered and shifted, but still the edge of challenge was clear for all to

hear.

“At this moment, it is…” Dorn turned his cold glare on the mirrored face staring

up at him. “My Lord Malcador.”

249

A thrill of surprise threaded across the room, as every one of the Sires and

Siresses turned to stare at the Master.

“I knew it…” hissed Culexus. “I always knew you were the Sigillite!”

“This is a day of revelations,” muttered Sire Vanus.

“I have just begun,” Dorn rumbled.

With a sigh, Malcador reached up and removed the silver mask, setting it down

on the table. He frowned, and an eddy of restrained telepathic annoyance rippled

through the air. “Well done, my friend. You’ve broken open an enigma.”

“Not really,” Dorn replied. “I made an educated guess. You confirmed it.”

The Sigillite’s frown became a brief, intent grimace. “A victory for the Imperial

Fists, then. Still, I have many more secrets.”

The warrior-king turned. “But no more here today.” He glared at the other

members of the Officio. “Masks off,” he demanded. “All of you! I will not speak

with those of such low character who hide their faces. Your voices carry no import

unless you have the courage to place your name to them. Show yourselves.” The

threat beneath his words did not need to break the surface.

There was a moment of hush; then movement. Sire Vindicare was first, pulling

the spy mask from his face as if he were glad to be rid of it. Then Sire Eversor, who

angrily tossed his fang-and-bone disguise on to the table. Siress Callidus slipped the

silk from her dainty face, and Vanus and Venenum followed suit. Sire Culexus was

last, opening up his gleaming skull mask like an elaborate metal flower.

The assassins looked upon their naked identities for the first time and there was a

mixture of potent emotions: anger, recognition, amusement.

“Better,” said Dorn.

“Now you have stripped us of our greatest weapon, Astartes,” said Siress

Callidus, a fall of rust-red hair lying unkempt over a pale face. “Are you satisfied?”

The primarch glanced over his shoulder. “Brother-Captain Efried?”

One of the Imperial Fists at the door stepped forwards and handed a device to his

commander, and in turn Dorn placed it on the table and slid it towards Sire Vanus.

“It’s a data-slate,” he said.

“My warriors intercepted a starship beyond the edge of the Oort Cloud,

attempting to vector into the Sol system,” Dorn told them. “It identified itself as a

common freighter, the Hallis Faye. A name I imagine some of you might recognise.”

“The crew…?” began Sire Eversor.

“None to speak of,” offered Captain Efried.

Dorn pointed at the slate. “That contains a datum capsule recovered from the

vessel’s mnemonic core. Mission logs. Vox recordings and vid-picts.” He glanced at

Malcador and the Custodian. “What is spoken of there is troubling.”

The Sigillite nodded towards Sire Vanus. “Show us.”

Vanus used a hair-fine connector to plug the slate into the open panel before him,

and immediately the images in the ghostly hololith flickered and changed to a new

configuration of data-panes.

At the fore was a vox thread, and it began to unspool as a man’s voice, thick with

pain, filled the air. “My name is Eristede Kell. Assassin-at-Marque of the Clade

Vindicare, Epsilon-dan… And I have defied my orders.”

250

Valdor listened in silence along with the rest of them, first to Kell’s words, and then

to fragments of the infocyte Tariel’s interim logs. When Sire Vanus opened the

kernel of data containing the vid-records from Iota’s final moments, he watched in

mute disgust at the abomination that was the Black Pariah. As this horror unfolded

before them, Sire Culexus bent forwards and quietly wept.

They listened to it all; the discovery of military situation on Dagonet and the plan

to reignite the dying embers of the planet’s civil war; Jenniker Soalm’s rejection of

the mission in favour of her own; the assassination of Sedirae in Horus’ stead and the

brutal retribution it engendered; and at last, the existence of and lethal potential

within the creature that called itself Spear, and the choice that the Execution Force

had been forced to make.

When they had heard as much as was necessary, the Sigillite shouted at Sire

Vanus to cease the playback. Valdor surveyed the faces of the clade directors. Each

in their own way struggled to process what they had been brought by the Imperial

Fists.

Sire Eversor, confusion in his gaze, turned on the Culexus. “That freakish

monstrosity… you created that? For Terra’s sake, cousin, tell me this is not so!”

“I gave the orders myself!” insisted the psyker. “It was destroyed!”

“Apparently not,” Dorn replied, his jaw tightening. “But it is dead now, yes?”

said Sire Vanus. “It must be…”

Dorn’s dark eyes flashed with anger. “A narrow view. That is all your kind ever

possess. Do you not understand what you have done? Your so-called attempts at a

surgical assault against Horus have become nothing of the kind!” His voice rose, like

the sound of storm-tossed waves battering a shoreline. “Sedirae’s death has cost the