“The guards are all heading down into the Vaults,” she said. “That is forbidden.”
Indeed it is, thought Xenothan, and we have set Belisarius a pretty conundrum. What will they tell the men who see the residents below? How will they deal with them? Perhaps they would be shipped out to some distant hellworld, and new guards would be brought in. Death was an obvious answer, but would the Celestarch have the stomach for it? Possibly. The Navigators were capable of anything when their survival depended on it.
Well, soon enough they would have other things to worry about. Xenothan headed on towards the throne room. His goal was finally within reach.
Ragnar spoke quickly into the comm-net. “Is the Celestarch secure?” he asked.
“She is being guarded by Torin and a company of guards in the throne room. We never got her to the Vaults before the alert sounded.”
“Move her,” said Ragnar.
“What?” said Valkoth. Ragnar swiftly outlined his suspicions. They needed to ensure that she was not in an expected location. If there was a traitor and an attack came, they had to assume the killers would know where to strike. Ragnar had even considered suggesting she be put on a ship and lifted out into orbit, but it was likely that the invaders had considered this option and prepared for it. All around, troops had started to flow into the Vaults.
“Ragnar is right,” he heard Torin say. “We cannot take the risk.”
Valkoth’s voice returned. “There are no signs of any breach up here.”
“That does not mean there has not been one.”
“Aye, you are correct. Explain to the Celestarch she has to move. I respectfully suggest taking her down to the Vaults.”
Very good, thought Ragnar. Not a place the enemy was likely to consider, and one already swarming with House troops. Of course, the situation down here had yet to stabilise, but it probably would before the Celestarch got here.
“Ragnar,” Valkoth continued crisply. “Take over the fifth company and secure the nearest defensible area to the shaft nine entranceway. Let me know when you’ve done it. Immediately.”
“Immediately,” Ragnar agreed.
“Come with me,” he told Gabriella. “We have work to do.”
Experience told Xenothan that something was wrong. There was not the density of security in the area that there should have been. He had been challenged several times but his appearance combined with the passes and rites the traitor had provided him meant that he had got through unscathed. Mostly. Those who had thought to challenge him had not lived for more than a few moments. He should now be challenged constantly but there were not many guards around.
Was it possible that the enemy had anticipated his coming and had changed their strategy? Had he been betrayed himself? Briefly he considered aborting the mission. Very briefly. His patron would not accept anything short of total success. Anyway, there was nothing so far to suggest that he had failed. He decided to push on. First, however, he needed to find a place to patch into the comm-net to let the fanatics know that there had been a change of plan. He needed to know if the Celestarch was being moved, and if she was, they were to slow that down, or stop it if possible.
He smiled. Small setbacks were part of the hunt. They would make his triumph all the sweeter once they were overcome.
Ragnar finished supervising the clearance of the holding bay. There had been more enemies than he had thought and they had fought with surprising deadliness. His force had taken more than a few casualties before they had overcome the enemy. Now he supervised the fortification of the area. He had set some of his men to guard all the approaches to their position, but held the bulk of his force in reserve, knowing that they could be attacked from any side.
Gabriella looked on. Her face was sooty and marked with scratches and blood. She had taken a few small wounds in their battles. A medic had hastily applied a synthi-flesh plaster to them, and it was swiftly being absorbed into the skin. “I never expected to have to fight here,” she said.
“There are no safe places,” said Ragnar. “You have to be prepared to fight anywhere.”
“Spoken like a true Space Wolf,” she said. “But tell me, how would you feel about fighting in the place where you were born and grew up?”
“I have,” said Ragnar automatically, casting his mind back to that long ago time. “I saw my father killed and my family enslaved.”
“Somehow that does not reassure me, Ragnar,” she said.
“I don’t suppose it would,” he said, as the realisation of what he had said sunk in.
She smiled.
“It serves me right for asking the question in the first place.”
“No, it doesn’t. This is your home. You have a right to be upset. You still have to fight though, if you want to keep it.”
“Those are the words of a Fenrisian.”
“The words are true no matter where they come from. In this universe there is little else we can do but fight for our place, if we want to keep it. There are plenty who would take it from us.”
“That’s certainly true if you are a Navigator.”
“It’s true for everybody, even a Space Marine.”
Xenothan moved through the palace, stalking his prey. Tonight, as things stood, he might not get a chance at his target, but he was not about to admit defeat. He could remain within the building, secrete himself in some hiding place and bide his time. No, that would never do. After tonight, the identity of the traitor would be revealed, and security would be redoubled. It was tonight or never, he thought. The only decision left to him was whether to abandon his mission and leave the tower or push on.
He grinned. There had never been any chance of him aborting the plan. This was the high spot of his career, a thing that would be talked about amid his secret brethren for centuries to come, if he was successful. No, he told himself, when he was successful.
He spoke more orders in code into the comm-net. His followers were closing in on what they thought was the Celestarch’s bodyguard. He did some quick calculations. They could achieve a temporary superiority at this point, two levels down. The Belisarians were mobilising by the ramps, which was sensible. They did not want to be trapped in an elevator or dropshaft. There was far too great a possibility of something going wrong.
He gave orders for the intercept, knowing it was only a matter of time before they worked out that he and his followers were using scrambled transmissions piggy-backed onto the Belisarian net. There was plenty of time to do what was needed; all the time in the world.
Torin kept himself beside the robed woman at all times, ready to interpose himself between her and danger. He sniffed the air, taking in the conflicting scents. He caught the faint traces of strangers on the recycled air, and hints of subtle toxins that had been released in miniscule amounts. He wondered what the casualties were. How many had died before that particular attack had been neutralised? Stick to your task, he told himself. He would know the worst soon enough.
He was still astonished by the boldness of this attack. Now they knew why there had been such a build-up of Brotherhood forces beneath the quarter. Every fanatic on Terra must be here. Who would have thought anyone would have dared to attack the Navigators within their own stronghold? It showed a boldness of planning and a competence of execution that he found almost admirable. But there would be hell to pay tomorrow. The Belisarians would spare no expense to find out who was behind this and avenge themselves.
Surely the attackers must have known that and planned for it too. They would have been fools not to, and this was not the work of fools. It was a chilling thought, that gave him pause even as he hustled the Celestarch’s crack bodyguard through the halls of the palace. Perhaps the enemy did not expect them to survive in any state to harm him. He would be proved wrong.
Be careful, Torin told himself. The night is not over yet. Who knows what other nasty surprises are in store? Perhaps there are other traitors. Torin felt certain that there was at least one: no one could hav
e penetrated the palace without inside help from someone high up. It simply could not have happened any other way. The question was who? The Navigators had many flaws but loyalty to their clan was practically bred into them. It had to be. How could someone have got around that?
Assuming they survived, the list of suspects could be narrowed enormously. Very few people were in a position to do what had been done, so one of them was the traitor. It could not be himself, or Haegr or Valkoth, he was sure. It could not be Ragnar. He did not know the youth well but he had just arrived from Fenris, and he did not seem the corruptible type, although he had come with the wench Gabriella. Still, she had just spent ten years with the Wolves, so she would be in no position to be a traitor so soon. They needed to look among the high command of the House. Torin had a few ideas about where.
Just then he caught a strange scent on the air. There were enemies coming towards them, and lots of them. “Ready yourselves to defend the Celestarch,” he told his men as their adversaries rounded the corner and opened fire. He let his wolfish howl ring out, knowing it would frighten the foe and give heart to his own men. Moments later he lunged headlong into the swirling maelstrom of battle.
He was happy. There were few things he loved more than feeling his blade bite into the flesh of his foes.
Xenothan heard the wolf-cry and the sound of the Brotherhood men engaging the enemy. This is it, he thought, the time he had been waiting for. He moved around the bend and saw the halls filled with the wild swirl of combat at close quarters. War raged among the tapestries and statues as the Celestarch’s guard were ambushed.
From the balcony he had chosen as vantage point, he watched the Space Wolf slash away at the fanatics who came within his reach. Xenothan allowed himself a fellow professional’s appreciation of the man’s deadliness and then gave his attention to the target. The Celestarch was firmly behind a wall of her elite guard. They refused to give ground even in the face of ferocious attacks. The presence of their ruler and the Wolfblade seemed to stiffen their spines remarkably.
In the natural course of events things would not go well for the Brotherhood. It was only a matter of time before House reinforcements got here and they would be swept away before the storm of blades. Fortunately, Xenothan thought, that was no concern of his. His mission was all but accomplished. He took a heartbeat to savour the moment, raised his customised bolt pistol and snapped off a single shot, almost without aiming. The shell sped directly into the Celestarch’s head, causing it to explode. Only Xenothan and an observer close to her side would notice that he had put the bullet right through her third eye.
The Wolfblade gave a howl of rage, and his response almost caught Xenothan off-guard. He raised his pistol and launched a snapshot. It was pure chance that caused his shell to smash into Xenothan’s gun, sending it broken and spinning over the banister.
Xenothan took no chances, he lunged backwards, filled with a growing sense of triumph marred only by a faint niggling feeling that something was wrong.
He was down the stairs and almost into his extraction routine when he realised what it was. The image of the tumbling Celestarch had burned itself into his brain, and was taking its place in the gallery of his proud triumphs. It was one of those things he would savour as long as he lived. He could freeze the scene in his mind.
Replaying it now, he realised he had made a mistake. The woman had been a Navigator but she was too short and too broad to be the Celestarch. At a distance she was almost identical, and few people could have told the difference, but Xenothan was one of them. He had been made a fool of. The Wolfblades had used a decoy to distract the intruders while they hustled the real Celestarch to safety. It was a simple ploy but in the confusion of the invasion it had proven an effective one.
What to do now, Xenothan wondered? Time was running out.
Ragnar watched as Haegr arrived. With him was a woman garbed in the dress uniform of an ordinary Navigator. Ragnar recognised her immediately as the Celestarch. Valkoth had taken a bold gamble and it had paid off. Haegr had managed to guard her all the way down into the Vaults. Somehow he had managed to stop off for food along the way. His lips and beard showed traces of fat and gravy. Ragnar could smell gammon on his breath.
“Hardly a real fight all the way here, just a few men in black to decorate my hammerhead with their brains.”
“For which I am profoundly grateful,” said the Celestarch.
“Indeed, lady,” said Ragnar leading her into the security chamber. There was only one way in and out of this place, but it was the best he could find at short notice. It might turn into a death trap if they were attacked in overwhelming numbers, but he was certain there was no other way in or out. Anyone seeking the death of the Celestarch would have to clamber over the dead bodies of Haegr, himself and a company of Belisarian guards to get her. Besides, more troops would be here as soon as they had finished clearing the Vaults of intruders. It looked like the situation was stable for the moment. The tone of the comm-net bead in his ear suddenly gave Ragnar a sense of foreboding.
“Ragnar. There is a problem,” said Torin. His voice sounded urgent.
“A problem?”
“The decoy is dead. They got to her. Is the Celestarch safe?”
“Haegr is here and so am I, and so are scores of guards. We have the Celestarch in the Vault. I don’t see how he can get past us.”
The signal cut off abruptly with the sound of gunfire in the distance. A moment later a voice spoke over the comm-net. “Ragnar, this is Torin. We have just been attacked and the decoy is dead.”
“I know, you just told me.”
“What? I have been busy killing our new guests.”
“You did not call me thirty seconds ago?”
“Thirty seconds ago I was removing my chainsword from somebody’s guts.”
“Then who called me?”
“I don’t know, it wasn’t me. But I need to warn you about something. There is an assassin loose in the palace.”
“There are many of them but we seem to gaining the upper hand.”
“No, I mean a real Imperial assassin. He killed the decoy Valkoth sent with the Celestarch’s bodyguard. When I shot at him he moved away so fast I almost could not see him. I am on his trail now, and I suspect he is heading your way.”
“An Imperial assassin? That does not seem possible. Has the Administratum turned against us?”
“I do not know, Ragnar, but I am certain that such a creature is here now. Be very careful. They are tricky and almost unstoppable once they are committed to a kill. He will try to find a way. Sit tight while I get him. Praise Russ!”
Ragnar’s mind reeled. It seemed like the enemy had access to the secure codes of the Belisarian comm-net. Not only that, but he knew how to imitate Torin’s voice.
How was that possible? Ragnar thought of their visit to the Feracci tower and all the machines that had been present along with all the servants. They certainly could have been eavesdropped on there.
He braced himself. It looked like the battle was not yet over. One of the deadliest creatures in the galaxy was on his way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Xenothan hurriedly gave instructions to the last surviving Brotherhood warriors. He hoped that they would abandon their bloodletting in the Vaults long enough to converge on their great enemy, the Celestarch. By now they must realise that they were doomed, and hopefully they would be willing to give away their lives at the highest cost to the hated mutants. Killing the Celestarch would achieve that. He quit broadcasting into the comm-net. He had to assume that by now his ruse had been discovered, and he was taking no chances of being located before his mission was complete. The Wolfblades had already proven that they were not fools. They would be doing their best to locate him. Keep moving, he told himself.
As he raced through the corridors, he checked his selection of special weapons. He had a few surprises up his sleeve. He still had the envenomed blades, the dart throwers and the grenades filled with
poison gas. He had changed his appearance once more and now wore the stolen uniform of a House guard. His face was completely different — wide and flat. Sub-dermal pigmentation sacks had changed his skin colour from Navigator pale to dark brown. His scent meant he would not fool a Space Wolf, but it would fool any normal person looking for one of his previous appearance.
He was not sure the Space Wolf had caught enough of him to be able to circulate it, but again it never paid to take chances.
A guard called out to him to halt. Xenothan had no time to waste now; swiftness, not concealment was of the essence. He concentrated and his altered body responded. Time slowed as his chemically enhanced reflexes sped up. The man seemed to barely raise his weapon before Xenothan was upon him. He reached out and speared his fingers into the man’s eyes, pushing them deep into their sockets. They punctured under the impact of his razor sharp fingernails.
As the guard fell, Xenothan caressed the edge of the man’s throat with the edge of his hand, crushing the windpipe.
A moment later he was gone, speeding down the corridor towards his intended target. He was determined that she would not elude him a second time this night.
“That was more like it,” said Haegr, smacking his lips with satisfaction, as he contemplated the ruined bodies that lay everywhere on the battlefield. Ragnar rose up from behind the hastily improvised cover to survey the area in front of them. Bodies sprawled all over the entrance to the Vault. The smell of exotic woods burning filled his nostrils. The dead lay everywhere.
“I am sure you’ll have plenty more entertainment in the next few minutes,” Ragnar said. “I think I can hear more of those maniacs approaching now.”
“You can, young Ragnar. And I must admit, for feeble humans, they certainly know how to die. They fight like men possessed.”
“No doubt they will take that as a great compliment.”