The Emperor's Legion (Watchers of the Throne #1) - Chris Wraight Page 0,102

destroying or removing many of the old chamber furnishings, leaving the fortress dark, dank and cold. Servitors were everywhere, hauling machinery and lumen-banks, power coils and supply canisters. The sound of turbo-drilling echoed up from the foundations, and I saw huge void shield generators being winched into place by heavy cargo-lifters.

Some of the fortress’ new occupants had served with Imperial institutions for a long time already, and so the adjustment needed for a life within the new dispensation was small. They retained their own armour, mostly still bearing the sigils of individual Black Ships, and carried weapons marked by heavy use. Those Sisters made the sign of the aquila as I passed them, and I returned the gesture of acknowledgement.

The sensation of being surrounded by so many null-souls in such a confined space was, I admit, unnerving. The effect was cumulative, and the further in that I went, the more I became aware of the strange sense of numbness in the filtered air. I had noticed it less during the heat of battle, but now, with something like normality restored, I could begin to understand why it had been so easy for them to slip away from us. It was hard to be around them, to tolerate the vague and nagging sense of wrongness that they exuded. I resolved to concentrate, to overcome such quintessentially human weakness. I was supposed to be beyond such things, after all.

Eventually I found her down in the very lowest level, where the ceilings dripped with rusty fluids and the air was thick with mould spores. Those chambers looked more like gaol cells than spaces in which to meditate. Knowing the identity of the previous occupants, it was likely that they had been.

When I entered, she was staring at a piece of stretched leather placed between staves of iron. She was so intent on her study that she didn’t hear me approach, and I was reduced to that most human of gestures – a faint cough.

She looked up, her face a picture of irritation. She must have recognised me, but I received no welcome.

What do you want? she signed.

‘To give you my thanks,’ I said. ‘And to register my debt to you.’

I was not sure whether to use Thoughtmark or speak out loud. The first seemed presumptuous, the second incongruous.

For what? And why? It was just fighting.

When I had last seen her she had been near collapse from exhaustion. In the days since the battle she had obviously been fed and given medicine, her armour hurriedly repaired, the foul blood burned from her sword and the steel sanctified by priests, but she still looked drained.

‘It was a mighty deed,’ I said, ‘to cripple that beast.’

It wasn’t a beast, it was shedim. You’d have done the same for me. It doesn’t make us soul-siblings.

The degree of resentment in her voice took me aback. Maybe I had become too accustomed to either awe or fear from those I served – to be faced with irascibility, that was novel.

‘Forgive me, Sister. My presence here is unwelcome.’

She turned on me, her eyes flashing. Yes, shield-captain, your presence here is unwelcome. It has been unwelcome for ten thousand years. Throne damn you, I wonder you have the nerve to face me at all.

I could hardly keep up with the blur of her fingers then – anger made her gestures rapid and slurred.

I saw the way you fought out there, she went on. I’ve never seen anything like it. You must have killed hundreds. So why were you here, and why were we there? Why were we left to fester, and you given all this to revel in?

Her fingers were stabbing now, jutting towards me like physical accusations.

So the war’s come to Terra now. I might even be pleased about that. Maybe it’ll stir you out of your damned laziness, though I fear it’s too late for that now.

I may have misinterpreted some of that diatribe. My suspicion is that Thoughtmark contains several expletives in its lexicon that I was unable to decipher; however, the core of her meaning was perfectly clear.

‘You must have suffered gravely,’ I said, doing my best not to antagonise her further. ‘Where were you stationed?’

Arraissa. Heard of that? No, of course not. You’ve been stuck in the Palace so long you’d barely be able to find your way to the front gate if your menials didn’t hold your hands.

She was wrong about that. I knew precisely where Arraissa was – an industrial world deep in the