As I slide my chair away from the gaming table I wonder if I am Oremor's worst actor, or if we were made before we even stepped foot into the Gran Pallazzar. Thinking about our missing team. I am more certain it is the later.
Whispering through the microbead.
"People best think about relocating."
Noticing Sigmut in the crowd I don't even pause and keep moving. He is my hidden Ace up the sleeve. Which reminds me...
Quietly over the microbead.
"I need my Furs. Trust me I have a reason."
I try and track where everyone from the gaming table has gone. Expecting Trizo and Leprade to have several crosshairs ordered on me already. I know I am bleeding heavy before the night is through. Just as long as I keep breathing and fighting. I mentally kick myself loosing sight of what was once Johnnie. It still holds the most cards.
I am almost surprised by the tug at my arm by Lady Cinzia. I know full well she knows how much danger I am in, and that just by mere conversation she has most likely endangered herself. Then again, what I know of Krade. Would he have married any less of a woman?
I turn my head slightly and whisper into the Lady Cinzia's air.
"Aye Lady, I am the last of the Dawnstar's. Unless there was another than my mother who avoided that fate that dreadful day. I am also Alpha of the Duct Wolves. I am Savalos Thul."
"In fairness I have to say it is your Husband who knows me. For it is he who recruited me to his cause, and protects one whom I cherish as my own little sister. We have shared many of the same teachers, and associates. Yet I have never met him personally."
I take a deep breathe. While still trying to read the movements of the crowd hoping it will reveal more hidden players.
"Respectfully I can not give you more of an answer in a crowd of so many ear's accustomed to learning gossip."
After a long moment. I realize I forgot something from earlier.
"Lady Cinzia. I understand there was an incident at one of the VIP entrances. Do you have any idea of what happened?"
<<<"Everybody be alert. Leprade's bodyguards are on high alert. Trizo and his witch are completely surrounded by Yellobouros. An enforcer has positioned himself at the top of the spiral staircase that is the only entry and exit to the Pinnacle of Pearl, and possibly most important, something is happening at the ceiling.">>>
With everything apparently going to skeit I move from the gaming table towards the fighting pit... Opposite the heretics.
Seeing Thul accosted by the Lady Cinzia has me worried. He obviously has a plan but is now detained.
Hearing Trantor's warning I nod at one of my bodyguards, feign a cough and respond, <<<"Acknowledged. Beij roll out the cart.">>>
Astrid has a special wheeled tray of appetizers and off-world treats to bring to my vicinity. Hidden inside is my combat shotgun. Just hope she can get it past that behemoth, dol-Geim. That monster will eat anything.
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Drainage Culvert 4M
Vincent stares down the guardsman, not giving an inch.
"Perhaps you should ask yourself the same question. Ignorance is a virtue for a reason. I give you that answer you cannot unhear it."
The guardsman in the mask at the lead of the trio has been anxiously creeping forward since this dialogue began, lasgun still raised threateningly at his shoulder. He risks nervous glances toward the edge of the culvert where he and the others dropped down seconds ago, but Vincent cannot say if he is expecting reinforcements or fearful of whatever horror was pursuing them.
The trooper's next action leads him to believe it is the latter.
"Feck it, sarge! C'mon, are we shooting them or not? There's not much time!"
The third man into the trench, clearly now the commanding officer of the other two, risks a quick glance back the lip of the trench before responding.
For a second, from the tension in his body language, Vincent believes he is going to give the order to have them shot, but the sergeant seems to relent at the last possible moment.
"I should probably shoot the lot of you. Hell, it would probably be doing you a favor given what's out there, because I don't think any of us are going to live to see the end of this culvert, anyway."
As if to punctuate these words, the sepulchral moaning coming from above becomes that much louder and a half-dozen of the warp-spawned walking dead stagger into view at the edge of the irrigation canal. They wear the tattered jumpsuits of penitents, but there is no question that they are no longer human, as their skin is pale and putrefying on their decomposing bodies. There is also no question, by the guttural sounds rising in volume from above, that there are many more behind these six.
Needing no more incentive to make up his mind, the sergeant yells,
"RUN!!!"
The three guardsmen begin backing in your direction while the one that has thus far remained silent clears the breech on his stubber. He then raises the weapon and empties a barrage of withering fire into the undead. Chunks of flesh and limbs fly off from the impact of the heavy rounds, dropping two of them to the ground, but more, many more, soon hove into view behind those that fall. The taller guardsman then slings his weapon back over his sizable shoulders and runs after his fellows.
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Drainage Culvert 4M
"You heard the man, MOVE IT!"
Vincent runs.
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Drainage Culvert 4M
Ryuk hesitates at Vincent's words, torn by the perceived threat of the guardsmen, and the impending doom coming in the form of zombie-penitents staggering forward in an inexorable line over the lip of the irrigation canal. Dozens upon dozens of the undead topple in ungainly fashion into the polluted waters below, like the issue of a sludgy, half-clogged tap, only to rise again in plodding pursuit, barking and grunting in horrible hunger.
As the taller guardsman with the stubber rushes past him, the psyker pivots on his heel to follow, noticing over his shoulder that the pursuing horde seems to have no end in sight, with more falling or dropping into the culvert closer and closer to his own position like a slowly cresting, necrotic wave of extinguished humanity.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
Savalos walks beside Lady Cinzia, until they reach the rope-off curve of the fighting pit and the gathering crowd of patrons.
Whispering through the microbead: "People, best think about relocating."
What follows is a faint, prearranged click of confirmation from the logistics end of the joint Inquisitorial operation.
.
Quietly over the microbead.
"I need my Furs. Trust me I have a reason."
Savalos hears another click, and watches as Sgt. Einhardt pointedly steps away from one of the concession tables.
Over the microbead, Dunkan's quiet, gravelly voice speaks on his secure channel.
<'I thought you might need them before the night was over. Second cooler from the left, when you are ready, my friend.'>
.
I am almost surprised by the tug at my arm by Lady Cinzia. I know full well she knows how much danger I am in, and that just by mere conversation she has most likely endangered herself. Then again, with what I know of Krade. Would he have married any less of a woman?
I turn my head slightly and whisper into the Lady Cinzia's ear.
"Aye Lady, I am the last of the Dawnstars. Unless there was someone other than my mother who avoided that fate that dreadful day. I am also Alpha of the Duct Wolves. I am Savalos Thul."
She raises a painted eyebrow from beneath her wigs pointedly at this last.
"In fairness I have to say it is your Husband who knows me. For it is he who recruited me to his cause, and protects one whom I cherish as my own little sister. We have shared many of the same teachers, and associates. Yet I have never met him personally."
Lady Cinzia draws nearer, to better maintain confidence as Savalos watches the retinues of Trizo dol Soulard and Intelligencer Leprade circle around to the other side of the fighting pit. Wardja stands a few meters to his right watching the pair intently as his partner, Astrid Beij, rolls a a confection cart into his vicinity.
When Lady Cinzia finally speaks, Savalos can smell the powerful floral bouquet of her perfume, making his nostrils twitch.
"I knew there was something more to you, you know. Nothing so sinister or dramatic as being affiliated with some hive gang, perhaps, but a certain undefinable air that reminded me of my late husband, the Marchez. He was always something of a mystery to me, despite being the love of my life. The Ministorum sometimes calls them 'Old Souls', don't they?"
She casts her eyes downward, becoming reflective, and for a moment in time, Savalos perceives the innocent beauty this woman once possessed, so long ago.
"Some part of me wonders how it is possible you could seem so young, and yet refer to him as a contemporary, how you could say that you shared teachers and friends, yet have never met---and another part of me doesn't---not in the slightest. In love, a wife comes to understand her husband in ways that no other ever can, and what I came to understand and live with about my dear Marchez, was that I would never fully understand him. Does that make sense to you, my dear boy?"
"Respectfully I can not give you more of an answer in a crowd of so many ear's accustomed to learning gossip."
"I know, I know. It doesn't take an old card-sharping mamzel like me to realize that the upjumped low-hiver, 'dol' Soulard, and his purse-lipped, conniving little Intelligencer crony have it in for you, my boy. Even what little you have told me is a better gift than this old woman could ever hope to receive at this late juncture in my life. It answers questions I have carried in my heart for decades, this little insight into my beloved. It doesn't hurt that it also cleared up some of the stranger things that always cast a pall of doubt in my mind. No one like to think they're crazy, my boy!"
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
Tikeen doesn't ask it like a question, merely presents it to Uriah as a soft-spoken statement of fact:
"There is far more at stake in this game than a few million gelt."
Uriah follows her eyes, and sees the only two participants in the Tournament of Cassilda who still are seated at the game table.
Keramiah Tor continues to shuffle his personal deck of placards and has locked eyes with the Changeling, who sits at the opposite end of the table, wearing Juan Rico's skin like comfortable suit, hands steepled before his face, returning the glare. His shoulders rise and fall rhythmically, head bobbing slightly, but Uriah cannot tell from his vantage if it is the daemon laughing or Johnny crying.
With everyone's attention riveted on the fighting pit or the pict-screens observing it, he feels he and Tikeen are the only watching this weird tableau.
The sudden, piercing buzz of a chain-weapon from below then averts their gaze as well.
"This world is at stake."
The Pit
As they walk toward the door, the Secutor offers a sober, monotone, and entirely Adeptus Mechanicus version of an Imperial Commissar's rallying speech. Needless to say, it only makes Kotts raise his eyebrow in a genuine look of polite incredulity.
"Well it looks like our wait is finished."
I look to my two companions in arms.
"We will have to work together, with Ivaanov not able to speak."
I look to the Private.
"We will need to keep an eye on him if we are fighting as a group. May the Emperor and the Omnissiah look over us and provide us with the strength and intellect to overcome our foes."
Kott's tries to add something, but bites his tongue, and instead settles on saying, "Let's just hope we're not outnumbered."
Ivaanov mutely trudges ahead, spindly hands clenching his iron staff.
They step through the open doorway to find themselves in a circular pit, roughly seven meters in diameter with a floor that is strangely smooth and almost pearlescent, covered in places with patches of a bloody sand and sawdust admixture. Nine doors ring the pit including the one they entered, with all but one of them unlit and nearly invisible in the gloom. The final one is lit like theirs, with a glowering red rune that even now winks at them, directly across from where they entered. Looking up, they can see they are inside a chamber that is like a tapering cross-section of a cone comprised of the same, uninterrupted cut of nacreous material, the wider portion on the bottom with inward-sloping walls that would be impossible to climb even if they weren't perfectly smooth. About five meters above their heads are the extended armatures of mounted pict-viewers and vox-feeds. Above these, another ten meters or so further, the pit ends with a much-smaller circle of light, about four meters in diameter. Kaltos thinks he can hear the mutter of voices above, and perhaps the tinkling of glassware.
All else is quiet, until the door behind them abruptly slams closed with a bang of metal on stone. Private Kotts looks back over his shoulder, his breathing growing faster, but the earnest guardsman betrays no other outward sign of fear. Ivaanov stands to Kalto's right, his insectile goggles affixed to the door on the far side of the pit.
A muffled voice from far above on an echoing loudhailer gives what sounds like an unintelligible speech of introduction, with only certain words decipherable; penitent, sins, redemption, and slaughter. It does not sound promising in the least.
Finally, the voice from on high begins to grow in intensity, taking on the excitable edge that Kotts would associate with the tone his fellow guardsman used while introducing the participants of their bare knuckle boxing matches back at Ylesium Claustrum, imitating the bombastic masters of ceremony that serve as the prelude to the bloodsports of the Vermillion Ring.
It takes a over a minute, but the final comprehensible verbiage before the other door begins to rise is the nonsensical (to the tech-priests, at least) shout of
Kotts promptly vomits on the floor, gagging and wretching until what little remained in his stomach is gone. He sniffs loudly, spitting out the rest of the bile, while flexing his arm holding the older-pattern chainsword.
The dark void of the far door is then replaced with an enormous figure that seems to stride forth from the dark in disassociated reveals of his hulking body; a massive, jack-booted foot attached to a chiseled calf and thigh of knotted, vat-grown muscle---a fist the size of a grox's head, clenched around the hilt of a weapon larger than Kotts' entire chainsword---a vast prow of a chest armored in an enameled, blood-red cuirass sporting a black, dagger-like letter 'V' in the center which is preceded by a closed, brass helmet perforated with dozens of circular holes, surmounted by two huge maulchups horns that erupt from either side. The floor shudders with the gladiator's approach. It is like something out of a nightmare.
When he is fully visible, it is clear that Dohor the Harvester is over two-meters tall, and nearly as wide, clad in nothing save his boots, helm, chest-plate and a wide breechclout. His dusky, oiled flesh is puckered with scars and tattoos of such intricate whorling shapes that it is difficult to determine where mortification of the flesh begins and body art ends.
He holds in his hands a terrible weapon that is as long as he is tall, a double-headed scythe with broad blades, crafted of shining brass and steel. Even as you watch, the teeth on the bladed edges of the two-handed chain chit-sickle roar into life with a squeal of oiled metal-on-metal and a gout of exhaust from the many ports on the wide hilt.
With a eye-dazzling flourish, the brute whips the massive weapon behind his head, over each shoulder, and across his back, hammy fists moving in perfect time, one over the other as the deadly chain-blades whir angrily in blurring symmetry. He finishes his showmanship by slamming the haft of the weapon into the floor, eliciting a chorus of cheers and applause from above.
Kotts spits again, sniffing resignedly.
"Dohor the Harvester---I take back what I said before, it might have been better if we were outnumbered..."
Upon seeing the abomination some one has made with the Messiahs gifts I seethe. I set my coginator scanning through my thoughts looking through my knowledge of Tactics Imperialis and seeing what would be best against a superior armed but not armored for but having the range advantage, armed with melee weapons... while its processing I look to the scythe and try to detect a flaw that can be exploited, I dont see one.
In Tech speak, while not looking away from the Harvester "Ivaanov, stay back and parry with your staff you have equal reach to you should be able to keep him at bay if he comes at you. Also see if you can tell if there is a weakness in that weapon we can exploit."
The scent of Lady Cinzia's perfume almost reminds me of the scent of K'lei-eth's garden, but it is so subtle that I am not certain.
I think back of the mural on the staircase of the Astropathic Choir...
"Aye, more of an Old Protective Soul."
"I understand well, Lady. Sometimes a look will convey more than a evening of conversation. Things are understood without being said."
Talking to her I catch glimpses of a younger woman standing before me. I wonder what she must have looked like back in the day. Seeing her strength of character and poise. Krade is a lucky man.
"I am glad I was able to bring comfort in removing some of your doubts."
Seeing the far doors open in the pit. I tense with frustration. Frag it wasn't enough time...
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Drainage Culvert 4M
Vincent runs down the culvert, his well honed survival instinct pushing his well beyond its usual limits.
The Pit
It is clear to the secutor that the only hope for he and his allies is to harry the gladiator with wolf-pack tactics, while using the full dimensions of the circular arena to keep from falling victim to the reach of the Harvester's devastating weapon. The trio is further hampered by the fact that the Adeptus Biologis, Ivaanov Drivanovich, is hardly a capable combatant. Kaltos' reasoning and logic engine calculates that their chances of defeating the adversary are discouragingly low, and that the statistical likelihood of all of them surviving, even if they should best their opponent, is infinitesimal at best.
As a secutor of the Divine Light of Sollex, the ramifications of his analyses do not in any way distract him from his sworn duty however, which is to protect the servants of the Omnissiah and the principles of the Adeptus Mechanicus unto death. He signals for both the mute Ivaanov and the guardsman, Kotts, to flank out from his position. As he hefts the monosword he tests its balance, trying to cogitate the likelihood that it will survive even a single attempt to parry such a powerful chain weapon.
Again, the odds are not good.
As they fan out in the arena, Ivaanov acknowledges Kaltos' recommendations with a mute nod while his hands move quickly over his throat, working deftly at the loose wiring from his disassembled vox.
Kotts grunts in acknowledgement as well, thumbing the stud on his old pattern chainsword and activating the blade.
Its noise is drowned out almost entirely by the roar of the Harvester's chain-scythe.
"Private when he makes a move try to swing around him."
As I finish my move I stand in a ready stance with my sword in from an my body turned to the side with my other hand back behind my body. When my back hand gets out of sight from the harvester I motion for Ivaanov to swing behind me and toward the Private.
Quietly over the micro bead.
"Would be a shame if Trizo's psyker got a headache, and wouldn't be able to concentrate. That he and Leprade's hands would suffer and play poorly."
As I look into the pit below. I hope the other teams do there parts. And hope the Sgt keeps his cool better than me. That there is a time for revenge. Its just not now.
I look at Tikeen, "You do know that Trizo is cheating, Trizo's witch is reading minds and passing the information to him."
Looking down in the pit I see the mismatched trio: a couple of tech-priests and a ramshackle guardsman. The middle figure has painted a crude Omnissiah cogwheel on his armor--a man of faith and virtue. Hopefully such devotion will be rewarded but bitter experience tells me not to be hopeful.
Eyeing the nearby food cart I size up my tactical position in case this facade goes all to skeit.
The Pit
The Harvester watches, almost disinterestedly, as Kaltos move forward and to the left, the tech-priest's weapon raised in a variant 4.1 Auxilia Myrmidon stance, his monosword held in a high guard position and raised so that the point projects at the optimal seventy degree angle.
The formidable gladiator remains impassive, with only his head moving in a slow circuit to follow this adversary who would dare approach him. After watching Kaltos advance, he casually strides forward to cut him off from proceeding further into the middle of the arena.
There is a strong impression from all who observe this mirroring of movement that it is the work of an accomplished veteran of the bloodsports intentionally building the audience's suspense, rather than a combatant being cautious of his opponent. Kaltos hopes this is the case, as such overconfidence can be turned to their advantage.
Ivaanov confirms Kaltos' signal with a nod, and coordinates his movements so that he moves behind him as the secutor advances. He continues to fiddle with the loose wiring at his throat.
Private Kotts backs toward the wall behind him, edging cautiously in a counter-clockwise direction toward the flank of the Harvester, at what he hopes is a respectable distance beyond the Vermillion Ring gladiator's considerable reach.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
I look at Tikeen, "You do know that Trizo is cheating, Trizo's witch is reading minds and passing the information to him."
The remark comes from Uriah's lips as he looks at the shimmering candle far above, remembering some of the superstitious lore related to the Pinnacle of Pearl that was discussed in the planning of their operation.
Tikeen grimaces, her face taking on a pained, almost sour expression, and Uriah knows she is further extending her astropathic talents in an attempt to verify what he says.
"I suspected as much."
Tikeen turns her eyes, forcing herself to focus on the robed woman at Trizo's side. Uriah can see it takes a continual effort for the astropath to even keep her in view.
"Her presence, her aura, it is so very difficult to focus upon---I must force my own senses to accept that she is actually there."
"Her---It's mind---it is like nothing I have encountered before---even the echoes of the thoughts fold in on themselves, though they may seem disjointed and contradictory alone, they make a certain terrible sense when taken as an amalgam, Uriah Trantor. My master would be furious, but what can be done? Your powers are far more refined than my own and still I would fear for your well-being if you tried to commune with her psychically. My deepest instincts scream to me that the only safety is remaining beneath that being's notice."
"I have not felt her thoughts, but I have felt her power and emotions, and they are extremely distasteful."
Not what I thought of someone wielding such a violent weapon to pause like that. I switch my stance to a more defensive one centering on him. More time means that we might get a rescue or just better weaponry if the crowd gets bored.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
"I have not felt her thoughts, but I have felt her power and emotions, and they are extremely distasteful."
Uriah stares down at the blue-robed witch, and what he sees serves to reinforce Tikeen's concerns and his own feelings of deep unease. Similar to when the Changeling made its entry into the Pinnacle of Pearl wearing Rico's skin, the crowd around Trizo's witch seems alternately repelled and oblivious to her presence. Where she stands just at the edge of the gang-lord's retinue of bodyguards and hangers-on there is a perceptible 'buffer' of space as the patrons mill around her near the edge of the fighting pit. It is as if those nearby fear to draw too close to her. Not one of the Gran Pallazzar's clientele even appears to look in her direction, an unlikely thing given her bizarre garb and deathly silent mien.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
The scent of Lady Cinzia's perfume almost reminds me of the scent of K'lei-eth's garden, but it is so subtle that I am not certain.
I think back of the mural on the staircase of the Astropathic Choir...
"Aye, more of an Old Protective Soul."
"I understand well, Lady. Sometimes a look will convey more than an evening of conversation. Things are understood without being said."
Talking to her I catch glimpses of a younger woman standing before me. I wonder what she must have looked like back in the day. Seeing her strength of character and poise. Krade is a lucky man.
"I am glad I was able to bring comfort in removing some of your doubts."
Lady Cinzia smiles, tears welling in her eyes at Savalos' words. She pats him lightly on his arm, the body cosmetic that was concealing his tattoos already beginning to flake off.
Her expression is a curious one, filled with sorrow, regret, and hope, and she wipes at her eyes trying to regain some measure of composure.
"Thank you so much again, for everything, and I hope some day you will find the answers you seek. I will forever be in your debt for this second chance."
She places a light kiss upon his cheek, the aroma of her fragrance passing close again, confirming what he suspected, before walking away from the fighting pit and the pending violence below. Savalos is struck with a curious sense of dejá vù as he watches her leave.
Her position near the edge of the rope is replaced in short order by Jeremiah Blitz, who takes his place a few feet apart from Savalos, whilst maintaining eye contact with some indeterminate point across the fighting pit from where they stand. He laughs under his breath, feigning to watch the action below as he speaks.
"I have to commend you, Dawnstar, despite your theatrics at the table and peculiar taste in the gentler gender, you and this eclectic collection of competitors have given me my most enjoyable match in ages."
"A younger mamzel, of mutual acquaintance has vouchsafed for you, though. It seems you are a charmer with the ladies regardless of their age."
He smirks.
"That being said, my more immediate concern is how this game means to end. Matters appear to be growing quite testy at the table, and it appears to me that there are several unresolved grudges local to this planetary body in play. Some seem to be acting a part (he nods in your direction with a quick glance and wink to 'Odo Wimarc'), while others I have not been able to get anywhere close to a read on (he gestures to Tor and the Changeling, still sitting at the table across from one another, a look of curious fear passing over his guarded features)."
He seems to suppress a shiver of unease.
"I am a betting man, and I like to come out on the winning side. I'd also be willing to bet that all of this skullduggery has something to do with the recent period of peculiar civil unrest on your world. Rioting in the Underhive and the prison colonies, terrorist acts, and now assassination. It's all enough to make someone like me want to go back to my ship and leave anchorage. Were it not, that is, for a mysterious edict forbidding any such departure. Many would presume this proclamation is merely an effort by the surviving planetary governor to maintain control in the face of such political and social upheaval. It would be an easy choice for me to simply leave anyway, given my stature in the big scheme of things---were it not for a curious vessel that has been anchored in high orbit for the past few days that the knowledgeable, such as myself, would have pegged for an Inquisitorial craft."
He finally makes sidelong eye contact with Thul, raising one eyebrow suggestively.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
Wardja tries to divide his attention from the combat playing out below and the movements of the various players on the casino floor, some small measure of reassurance coming from the fact that his Arbites-issue combat shotgun is safely stowed in the concession cart nearby.
Dunkan comes over the microbead while he muses on just how everything might play out, with a bit of good news for a change.
<'We're nearly there---your tech-savant has isolated the arena door controls and is facilitating an override protocol for them now.'>
Dunkan Danicos pauses, giving Wardja the impression he is listening in on other channels as well.
<'There is some very serious unrest occurring in the Underhive as well---we've been monitoring Oremor 1st Legion transmissions for the past hour and they are reassigning four companies from Vaxus District to the levels directly beneath us to quell some kind of violent uprising in the Deeps. What's making me worried is everything is being carried on coded channels, but it appears to substantiate the earlier traffic we were receiving on the civilian comms regarding widespread violence---somehow involving the plague victims, it seems. It was initially believed that the conflict was between gangers and Redemptionists, but now we're hearing they're fighting together against something.'>
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Drainage Culvert 4M Terminus
Although his physical stamina is not nearly the equivalent of either the guardsmen or his own companions, Vincent avails himself well, proving again that mortal fear is indeed a powerful motivating force.
He has given up estimating the numbers of the undead that have spilled into the culvert behind them, but if the volume of the mindless howls of hunger are any indication, a sizable portion of the claustrum's millions, both pentitent and guardsman alike, have succumbed to the corruption.
Ryuk and the senior guardsman lead the charge, having already dispatched several stragglers that somehow managed to fall into the winding canal in the path in front of them. Fortunately, the horrors seem to blindly follow one another, almost lemming-like, and these surprises have only been occasional obstacles to their flight.
When Ryuk abruptly comes to a halt, the leader of the guardsmen does the same, snarling an epithet under his breath.
"Feck!. Looks like this is the end of the line."
Although it feels like heaven to rest his aching legs, Vincent realizes the respite will be short-lived. As he tries to fill his lungs with the foul miasma that pervades the culvert, he nearly retches. Ahead of them the drainage culvert finally terminates in a pentagonal wall of smooth rockcrete, its weathered tip projecting just above the level of the plantation fields three meters or so overhead. A large, circular mesh grate of algae-wreathed iron bars blocks further passage into a tunnel that continues under the fields. Two rusting utility ladders, rungs inset directly into the faded stone, flank the grate, ascending to the fields above.
The sky above has darkened since the companions entered the culvert, and the distant rumble of thunder presages a storm to come.
Vincent guesses that the horde is only a few minutes behind them.
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Drainage Culvert 4M Terminus
The Pit
Ivaanov continues to fiddle with the remaining pieces of extant wiring at his throat, and once satisfied, uses his slender fingers to push them, still loose and tangled, back into the hollow of his neck.
A squalling burst of static belches out as he tries to reactivate his vox.
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Drainage Culvert 4M Terminus
Launce taps away at the cartographic dataslate, his eyes continuously going to the last jog of the culvert and the terrible sounds that grow louder and louder around the angled edge of the wall.
"Look, we're nearly there..."
I watch as Lady Cinzia walks away. The scent of her perfume still hanging in the air. I pray I will have the opportunity to ask her about it later. I am sure its another clue, but she needs time alone to compose herself. I will respect that.
Seeing Jeremiah coming up and filling the space where Lady Cinzia and her bodyguard were just a moment ago fills me with a bit of ease. As I listen to his words I know I have new cards to play. The game is still alive. Now how do I say Inquisition, without saying Inquisition.... got it.
"Sounds like your counting your cards well. Don't gamble against the one that sits across from me. Its like going against the house dealer."
"You have me at a bit of a disadvantage. I don't know of which mamzel you are speaking of?"
It could be Srina. But a Mamzel is an unwed lady from a noble house, and she is a smile girl. That's if I remember nose bleed talk right. Think I would remember crossing paths with a woman like that. Maybe Jeremiah will throw me another bone.
"I expect that certain parties will do what they can to make sure I won't leave the card table tonight breathing. If it wasn't for old scars being opened I would have to say it is a very enjoyable game of cards."
I look back at Jeremiah waiting for his response.
Rook
With my rising hatred kept in check by my logic processors I move forward and make a swing at the brut. Maybe hes all show and he will not be able to take the hit.
The Gran Pallazzar Casino, The Pinnacle of Pearl
"Sounds like your counting your cards well. Don't gamble against the one that sits across from me. Its like going against the house dealer."
Blitz finally turns his goggle-like augmetics toward Savalos, chuckling under his breath.
"You mean the ganger or the madman with the bluer than blue eyes? The first knows the game well---or at least thinks he does---the other, well, I'd like to think there was a reason he folded while he was ahead in the last hand, but I don't think I'll ever understand why. He's been playing the tournament not to win, but like he wants to keep things going until the ninth round. Any idea why?"
"You have me at a bit of a disadvantage. I don't know of which mamzel you are speaking of?"
Savalos realizes when the rogue trader turns to look at Srina, standing amongst the other smile girls with his armsmen, that he was correct, and didn't notice the sarcasm in the man's voice when he said 'mamzel'.
"I expect that certain parties will do what they can to make sure I won't leave the card table tonight breathing. If it wasn't for old scars being opened I would have to say it is a very enjoyable game of cards."
Blitz nods, again looking away from the acolyte.
"I mean to look after myself and my own whatever transpires, Dawnstar. But that doesn't mean if things do go to hell that we have to take it out on eachother, you get my meaning? It looks like we both have friends in high places keeping an eye on things for us."
Blitz turns his gaze to the mezzanine level where Uriah stands beside a pale-skinned voidborn woman.
Jeremiah's words have weight to them...
Numbers have power, cards have meaning.
I turn on my micro bead. Speaking to Jeremiah for the others to over hear.
"Aye its good to have friends."
Not looking up. Figure Jeremiah highlighted Uriah enough. I don't need to add to putting the man in danger.
"Have a feeling we will be covering each others back's before the night is through. If things go well tonight. I would love to introduce to another card player. Best card sharp I have ever seen."
Turn the micro bead off.
"On a personal note. Thank the mamzel for vouching for me. You have more freedom of movement than I do in this house. And I don't want to mark anyone..."
An idea just flashed, and I break into a smile as I continue my conversation.
"I plan on stirring the Churaptus nest. I would appreciate it if you would escort the mamzel to safety. I doubt I would have the honor of doing so myself."
"Aye. My gut tells me things are going to hit the fan then."
I flip the micro bead back on for a short burst of a whisper.
"Beware the 9th."
Micro bead off.
The Pit
Looking down, the other acolytes watch as Kaltos bravely decides to break the ice against the imposing gladiator. He pivots with surprising grace on his back heel, swinging the monosword in a horizontal arc, aiming at the Harvester's bare thigh.
The hulking brute easily steps forward and swings the angrily-buzzing head of his massive chain scythe downward, batting the flat of the monoblade downward in a shower of sparks. While completing the motion, he abruptly pivots in place, sidestepping with surprising agility to intercept Kotts before the guardsman can circle around.
Swinging the huge weapon fully through its trajectory, the Harvester brings it back up and over his shoulder with his other hand for a brutal blow on the guardsman.
Taken almost completely off guard, Kotts has no time to try to bring up his chainsword to block the blow, and tries in vain to duck beneath the swing.
He nearly does, but nearly is not good enough in this case. One edge of the screaming chain-scythe savagely cuts a large chunk of the guardsman's cheek away. Almost immediately, bright red blood begins to gout from his face, splashing across his arms and chest. Poor Kotts still stands, blankly staring around as he backpedals, wondering what just hit him.
Ivaanov strides forward, swinging his metal staff in a downward stroke at the gladiator, trying to distract his attention before he can finish the guardsman.
The blow seems about as inconsequential as an insect bite to the Harvester, but it serves its purpose. The gladiator momentarily turns his attention away from finishing Kotts, and acknowledges the tech-priest's presence.
The distraction of Ivaanov rushing in is just enough to grant the guardsman an opportunity to regather his wits, and he makes the most of it, returning the favor and cutting under the Harvester's guard and raking his own weapon across the brute's menacing helm.
The blow grinds with a shrieking squeal of metal on metal as it passes, and cuts a deep gash across the gladiator's neck and collarbone that immediately becomes awash with blood.
After he swings toward the Private I hack at his training left leg . Then I pivot the sword taking a chunk of the leg with it and try to get up under the breastplate along the side.
<<<"I know representatives of the ninth are here, not including our former friend, but if you are talking about the ninth round of play, that makes sense">>>
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Drainage Culvert 4M Terminus
Vincent hoist himself up the ladder to the left, calling down to the others.
"Stay alert and keep moving. Our only chance is to stay ahead of them."
The Pit
A sudden, sibilant murmur of surprise flows through the crowd of the Pinnacle of Pearl as the gladiator receives the unexpected wound, and it turns into an excited murmuring as the secutor successfully presses the attack on the juggernaut.
As the gladiator side-steps away from him, Kaltos drives forward and slashes downward, slicing the blade across the Harvester's trailing leg, creating a deep gash in the brute's calf. It is impossible to tell if the Harvester even feels the pain or even acknowledges the wound, as he continues his headlong charge toward Private Kotts.
Following close on the Harvester's heels, the secutor drives his blade forcibly into the cuirass, but the thickly reinforced metal is not penetrated by the tip of the monosword as fully as the tech-priest expected, and Kaltos has to yank it back firmly to to avoid being dragged along by the gladiator's movement.
Despite the wound delivered by Kaltos, the Harvester continues his unrelenting assault on Private Kotts, the huge scythe roaring down vengefully upon the guardsman after his lucky riposte.
As the Harvester's bestial, ab-human roar fills the pit, he swings his menacing weapon in a flat, horizontal arc toward the guardsman's midsection. Private Kotts, shaking blood from his face and around his eyes tries to leap back in time.
Somehow, some way, the resourceful guardsman manages to avoid a blow that would have effectively bisected him had it connected, and he half falls, half collapses into the wall behind him, rolling away and behind the Harvester, slashing as he moves.
The haphazard swing does not come close to connecting, but Kotts regains his footing, circling around behind the Harvester.
Ivaanov, realizing that his staff's reach is better served on the defensive, stays close to their adversary, but instead of attacking, completes the complex prestidigitation about his throat and vox.
Amazingly the mute tech-priest speaks again, a torrent of audible binary that sounds like nothing less than a grating cacophony of strident, discordant tones.
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Edge of the Tertiary Fallow Fields.
Pulling himself up the last rung of the rusting ladder, Vincent first gazes back over the zig-zagging ribbon of recessed rockcrete that winds off in the direction of Ylesium Claustrum. The claustrum compound itself is now only a small, smoke-hazed block dominating the horizon, like a lonely monolith. From his vantage point as the others climb up beside him, he can see that where once there were scores, now there are hundreds of the shambling dead following mindlessly in their footsteps along the culvert, pressed tightly together like squirming maggots in a dessicated vein, barely minutes behind in their pace. A quick survey with his magnoculars across the smoldering fields they passed through shows dozens more of the undead staggering about randomly, some following the grotesque moans of their fellows in the drainage canal.
There is no sign of any further resistance from the 7th Legion, with burnt out vehicles and improvised earthwork barricades littering Plantation Field #7 and the various husbandry barn clusters. Although Vincent can pick out numerous bodies amid the crater-pocked fields, there are far fewer than there should be given the scale of the devastation visited upon the claustrum. These corpses are far outnumbered by the countless slaughtered maulchups. Once glance at the culvert makes it abundantly clear what has become of these unlucky dead.
Ylesium has fallen, the 7th Legion is no more.
The once-blue sky is now a purplish-black bruise as the last vestiges of daylight fade, streaked here and there by the wispy contrails of military aircraft long since passed. The air, even through the filtered rebreather, carries with it a foul miasma of rot, ruin, and expended munitions, and beneath it all the damp-ozone scent presaging a coming storm.
Turning away from the bleak landscape and the doom that encroaches upon them, Vincent quickly consults with Launce on the cartograph as Ryuk and the trio of guardsman nervously eye each other.
Glancing up from the dirty display, just beyond a disabled harvester and an overturned water truck, he sees a swath of largely unblemished maulchups pasture extending for half a click ahead, sloping gently upward to the tertiary fallow field; an imposing wall of unharvested mycoid growth nearly four meters high, essentially a forest of Basidiomycota Unduz. The tall, ruddy-colored mushroom stalks are approximately the width and height of bamboo, topped by broad, ochre-gold caps that lend a gloomy shade to the ground beneath their closely packed shafts. Stunted pathogenic rust-grass 'weeds' grow about their bases, siphoning nutrients from the larger fungi, while creating a coarse overgrowth under the canopy. The faint shimmer of spore-haze lingers over the outlying edge of the fallow field like a mycotic mist, obscuring your vision from looking any further into the bizarre terrain ahead.
The knobby, protuberances of stalk-stumps dot the open pasturage between the end of the culvert and the beginning of the fallow-field, one of them impaled by the rusting skeleton of a broken chit-sickle that points in their direction like an accusatory finger of oxidized metal.
Getting to the Inquisitorial guncutter, wherever it is hidden in the depths of the fallow-field, will not be easy. Making it even more difficult, twenty or so of the plague-zombies, solitary and gathered into groups of three and four even now are turning their attention to Vincent and his companions, their lobotomized instincts responding to the hungry call of their fellows, who are even now surging around the last corner of the drainage canal, heading toward the ladders.
I swing again but am per-occupied with motioning with the Private that I miss. With disgust with myself I yell "Private!" and I motion covering my ears. I then proceed to keep them covered wateing for Ivaanov do what he is planing.
Watching the display below is sickening. Not only because the Emperor's loyal subjects are in harm's way but because I supported such travesty in my younger days. I casually glance about, taking measure of the team and our known enemies. And those whose allegiance is unknown.
The Pit
Distracted by Ivaanov's transmission, and over-eager to press their momentary advantage, the secutor lunges forward aggressively, but the gladiator easily side-steps the hasty swing.
Turning his body so that he stands sidelong to Kotts and Kaltos, Dohor the Harvester ignores Ivaanov for the moment, seeing as the tech-priest is already beginning to back away, his vox sputtering jangling tones and spurting electric-blue sparks that grant a surreal glow to the rainbow textured stone.
As the Harvester detects Kaltos' awkward swing, he seizes the advantage, whipping the screaming chain-scythe out to meet his advance.
Kaltos pivots away at the last instant, saving his outstretched arm, and after shouting his warning to Kotts, brings both of his armored hands up to cover his auditory receptors.
Sensing the urgency in Kaltos' voice, Kotts does the same. The guardsman blocks his ears while still staggering backward, blood pouring through the fingers of his left hand as it partially covers the vicious wound across his cheek and jaw.
Holding his staff before him like some feral world shaman warding a nightmare beast born of backward folklore encroaching upon his village, Ivaanov's damaged vox erupts with an ear-splitting screech of feedback that echoes agonizingly upward from the bottom of the pit.
The blood-drenched brute lets out a piteously wail as the shrieking noise intensifies to deafening levels, his enclosed, metallic helmet no doubt doing little alleviate the agony. He lowers his head, shaking it from side to side, letting his guard down.
Above, the patrons of the Pinnacle of Pearl yell in irritation and dismay, the strident, echoing noise carrying up out of the conic fighting pit beneath them to fill the casino.
Many of those assembled closest to the pit stagger back clutching at their heads, with a few mamzels swooning from the intense auditory assault.
As soon as the sound fades, Kotts grits his teeth and swings at the Harvester's back with his chainsword.
His weapon clangs resoundingly across the reticulated back-plate of the Harvester's cuirass, but this is barely noticed by any of the audience above. They are preoccupied with regathering their wits, the laud-hailer of the concierge urging calm while coincidentally adding to the din.
The Pit
Seizing the advantage that Ivaanov has provided I press my attack. As the blow heads to the monsters head my only hope is that it is not as thick as the breastplate was.
Unduz II, Oremor 7th Legion Penal Claustrum, Designate Ylesium, Plantation 7, Husbandry Barn Cluster 177, Edge of the Tertiary Fallow Fields.
Turning to the others, Vincent points a bony finger towards the fallow field, and the scattered undead which block their passage.
"There is no way around, we must go through. Ready your men Sargent, we are almost there."
The Pit
Striding around the pit-fighter's blow, Kaltos grips his blade two-handed and lunges in, driving the edge of the monosword into the front of the Harvester's helm, the sudden ferocity of the secutor's attack leaving him no time to avoid the blow.
Although the blade does not fully penetrate the helm, the force of the powerful swing rattles the face-plate on the Harvester's head violently, ringing the enclosed helmet like a bell. The toll of the collision echoes through the pit, combining with the lingering sound of Ivaanov's vox-screech.
Still roaring in agony from Ivaanov's auditory assault, the Harvester largely ignores the glancing blow delivered by Kaltos, and instead lunges forward, sweeping the chattering blade of the chain-scythe around at the slender tech-priest, who still stands, iron staff extended and head slightly raised, like some kind of Mechanicus chorister, the ebbing shriek of his feedback just now fading to silence.
Seeing he has brought the ire of the gladiator down upon him, Ivaanov tries to raise his staff horizontally at the last minute as the blow comes down.
His effort perhaps saves his life, as the iron-shod staff deflects just enough of the raw, brute power of the attack before it hits the tech-priest's shoulder, where the churning teeth dig in and begin ripping through armor and the metal girded flesh beneath.
Ivaanov collapses to one knee under the fury of the assault, trying to wrench himself free of the chain-scythe as the Harvester bears his full weight down upon it in an effort to finish the tech-priest.
Rushing to the aid of his companion, Private Kotts slashes at the Harvester's exposed leg from behind.
Sensing Kotts lunging in behind him, the Harvester reluctantly yanks his buzzing chain-weapon free of Ivaanov's shoulder, spattering a wet cloud of blood and machine oil as it leaves the wide cut in the tech-priest's armored body to deftly block the blow at his calf.
Seeing my responsibility and my mission crumple to the floor I take a more measured swing at the beast.