Zarrael gave a twitching nod in the direction of Penitent Wrath, and Kjarvik looked that way. Wienand walked towards them, Raznick in close beside her, crowded by black-armoured mortal troopers — hreindýr displaying their antlers to a Fenrisian wolf. The inquisitor had changed out of her grey dress-suit during the flight, and into the same glossy black fatigues and hardened carapace worn by her storm troopers. She had a laspistol, but left it in its holster, content to cede her protection to the twenty-plus guns of her guards.
‘A neat fit,’ said Kjarvik, indicating her slighter frame relative to the muscular Inquisitorial storm troopers.
‘I came prepared.’
Raznick pushed Urquidex ahead of him, and now the magos was close, Kjarvik saw that he was pulling a small equipment cart behind him. Its wheels rattled on the bent metal roof. Lights blinked in no particular sequence, and wires flounced between what looked like a specialist vox-set and the plug-in sockets in the back of Urquidex’s neck. His eyes twitched randomly. He muttered a guttural alien gibberish under his breath, as though something primordial whispered in his ear. Drool trickled down his chin as he mumbled, too intent on sharing the profundity of what he heard to remember to swallow.
‘What is wrong with him?’ said Baldarich, voice thick with distaste.
‘He is parsing the orks’ communications for an indication of the Beast’s location,’ said Wienand. ‘When Thane told me that he could pick out the Beast’s voice from the palace transmissions, I was reminded of the linguistic matrix developed by Magos Laurentis to translate the Beast’s attempts at communication on Ardamantua. Urquidex possessed the necessary cranial implants to access his language centres, and he kindly volunteered.’
‘I am sure he did,’ said Kjarvik.
‘It. Is. Curious,’ said Urquidex, the human words forced between the brutish alien sounds that spilled from his cortex. ‘Multiple. References. To. Beast.’ His eyes were screwed shut, eyelids flickering as if in a troubled dream. ‘Unsure. Where. It. Is.’
‘Deliberate misdirection?’ Thane suggested.
‘Perhaps.’
‘Then we split our forces,’ said Wienand quickly. ‘Hit them all. The Fists Exemplar and Excoriators take half, while I and the Deathwatch will take the other. If nothing else, splitting up will keep the orks off-balance, possibly give Koorland and Kavalanera a chance to deploy the psyker.’
‘You?’ said Thane. ‘Representative, I do not believe—’
‘Don’t “Representative” me, Maximus. You lead your men and I intend to lead mine.’
Thane shot a glance at the Deathwatch. There were just under thirty of them, the finest warriors from nine different Chapters. The best that Kjarvik had ever fought beside.
‘I suppose I have little choice,’ said Thane.
‘Less than that. Now let’s go.’
‘Is one location more likely than another?’ said Thane, and turned to Urquidex.
‘Not. Significantly. But. One. Is. Source. Of. Most.’ He shuddered, jaw clenched over a truculent ‘Tra’ sound that apparently did not exist in the greenskin vocabulary. ‘Transmissions.’
‘Then I shall take that one. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ said Wienand. ‘Assign teams and Urquidex will instruct them on where to go.’
Thane nodded and turned to order his men into combat squads. As soon as he was facing the other way, Wienand clasped Urquidex’s shoulder and, under the pretence of helping him walk, whispered something in his ear. But none of the Space Marines on the rooftop had keener ears than the Space Wolf.
‘My team takes the most probable location.’
Kjarvik shook his head and readied his wargear.
Bad luck. It was a curse.
Ullanor — Gorkogrod, throne room
The ork psyker gave a roar of supplication as the heavy draught-servitors hauled the creature into the great throne room of the orks. Laurentis scuttled under the chain to stab another dose of sedative into its leg. It barked and tried to kick back at the magos, but the dumb servitors dragged it inexorably forward. Signing to her sisters to close in around their charge, Kavalanera drew in behind it, raised her arm up and placed her hand to the back of the psyker’s neck, where it joined its head. It shuddered in bleak horror, some combined effect of the paralytic in its bloodstream and the pariah gene that cored its subconscious like a frost blade to the soul. Even so, it continued to ramble and growl. It dropped to its knees as though begging forgiveness and had to be dragged the rest of the way by its wrists.
That display alone would have been enough to convince Koorland that he was in the right place. But he knew this room. Krule had described it perfectly.
In the centre of the stupefyingly vast space was a circular dais, much like the centrepiece of the Great Chamber of Terra, though this example of the form was larger again, grander again. Six enormous thrones faced outwards in a ring, so that the one immediately opposite Koorland was out of view. And the one that faced him…
‘Stop!’ he roared, and, cued to his voice, command the servitors halted.
The ork psyker writhed on the floor.
‘This is the chamber,’ said Krule.
Behind the Assassin, Alpha 13-Jzzal and the ogryns held the doors with thumps of meat and fiery blasts of plasma. Kill-Team Stalker spread out, taking positions in the crop-circle patterns of pits surrounding the podium that might have been analogous to rows of seating.
Koorland clumped forward to join Bohemond and Asger.
Like him, they were staring up at the dais.
Enthroned in its titanic chair was a gigantic, armoured ork, nearer in size to a gargant than any common greenskin. No plate was of the same material or colour as the next, but all were threaded together with an intricate web of alien designs. Its head was bare: flesh, dark green, ridged like tree bark, and swirled nightshade blue with tattoos. Gauntlets the size of Koorland’s plastron clasped the throne’s arms. Calloused lips and painted tusks parted in a grin.
It had been waiting for them.
Koorland felt a chill in his soul.
With a clanking of armour, the Beast rose from its throne.
‘Emperor preserve us,’ cried Commissar Goss, turning from the mob at the door and lowering his plasma pistol in horror. The commissar was a last-minute addition. He would not have been briefed on events on the temple-gargant of the Beast.
Koorland became aware of jeering from above. He turned his faceplate to look up over his right pauldron.
The walls of the throne room were stone, black and white, made of large blocks carved with ork glyphs. Scores of iron-railed galleries jutted out. They were identified with glyph plates and a quick glance was enough to tell Koorland that there were only six unique pictograms in total. An iron-tusked ork on a disc of red; a red sun with an ork’s face; a crooked yellow half-moon; an angular serpent; a skull crossed by bloody axes; a horned blue ork’s head backed by bones. The galleries marked by that last symbol were lined with bellowing orks. The aliens were all as big or bigger than any Koorland had yet encountered beside the Beast itself. They were heavily armed and armoured, their gear a dull blue bearing the blazon of the death’s skull.
War machines flanked the galleries, great gargants, symbols of status as much as sentinels. Their enormous rivet-iron frames boasted only the largest and most complicated weapon mounts. The paint daubed across their bodywork and the jewels that studded their armour matched the glyph art of the chamber. None was smaller than a Reaver Titan, and most were considerably larger. In some cases the ork engineers had resorted to extending their machine outwards to outdo a rival engine. They were fortress walls on spiked tracks.