Nemesis

Which path would serve Him best? Which path would serve His subjects best?

Try as she might, she could not shake off the power behind Sinope’s message.

The quiet potency of the noblewoman had bled into the room, engulfing her. Soalm

knew that what she was being asked to do was right— far more so than a bloodsoaked

mission of murder that would only lead to death on a far greater scale.

The church of the Lectitio Divinitatus on Dagonet needed her. When she had

needed help after mother and father—and then Eristede—had been lost to her, it was

the word of the God-Emperor that had given her strength. Now that debt was to be

answered.

In the end she realised there was no question of what to do next.

The door opened with a clatter, and the rebel soldier started, turning to see the pale

assassin woman standing on the threshold. She had an elaborately-etched wooden

case over her shoulder on a strap, and was in the process of attaching a holstered

bact-gun to her belt. She looked up, her hood already up about her head. “Sinope said

you would take me to her.”

He nodded gratefully. “Yes, of course. This way. Follow me.” The rebel took a

couple of steps and then halted, frowning. “The others… Your comrades?”

“They don’t need to know,” said Soalm, and gestured for him to carry on. The

two of them disappeared around a curve in the corridor, heading up towards the

surface.

From the shadows, Iota watched them go.

Spear loathed the warp.

When he travelled through the screaming halls of the immaterium, he did his best

to ensure that he did so in stasis, his body medicated into hibernation— or failing

that, if he were forced to remain awake by virtue of having assumed the identity of

another, then he prepared himself with long hours of mental rituals.

Both were in order to calm the daemonskin. In the realms of normal space, on a

planet or elsewhere, the molecule-thin layer of living tissue bonded to his birth flesh

was under his control. Oh, there were times when it became troublesome, when it

tried to defy him in small ways, but in the end Spear was the master of it. And as

long as it was fed, as long as he sated it with killings and blood, it obeyed.

But in the depths of warp space, things were different. Here, with only metres of

steel and the gauzy energy web of a Geller field between him and the thunder and

madness of the ethereal, the daemonskin became troublesome. Spear wondered if it

was because it sensed the proximity of its kindred out there, in the form of the

predatory, almost-sentient life that swarmed unseen in the wake of the starships that

passed.

Eurotas had granted him the use of a ship called the Yelene, a fast cutter from the

Consortium’s courier fleet designed to carry low-mass, high-value cargoes on swift

system-to-system runs. The Yelene’s crew were among the best officers and men the

clan had to offer, but Spear barely registered them. He gave the captain only two

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orders; the first was to make space for Dagonet at maximum speed; the second was

not to disturb him during the journey unless the ship was coming apart around them.

The crew all knew who Hyssos was. Among some levels of the Eurotas clan’s

hierarchy, he was seen as the Void Baron’s attack dog, and that reputation served

Spear well now, glowering through another man’s face at everyone he saw, before

locking himself into the opulent passenger cabin provided for his use. The cabin was

detailed in rich, red velvet that made the murderer feel like he was drowning in

blood. That comforted him, but only for a while.

Once the Yelene was in the thick of the warp, the daemonskin awoke and cried in

his mind like a wounded, whining animal. It wanted to be free, and for a long

moment, so did Spear.

He pushed the thought away as if he were drawing back a curtain, but it snagged

on something. Spear felt a pull deep in his psyche, clinging to the tails of the disloyal

emotion.

Sabrat.

NO NO NO NO

Furious, Spear launched himself at a bookcase along one of the walls and

slammed his head into it, beating his malleable face bloody. The impact and the pain

forced the remnant of the dead reeve’s persona away again, but the daemonskin was

still fretting and writhing, pushing at his tunic, issuing tendrils from every square

centimetre of bare flesh.

It would not obey him. The moment of slippage, the instant when the corpsemind

shard had risen to the fore, had allowed the daemonskin to gain a tiny foothold

of self-control.

“That won’t do,” he hissed aloud, and strode over to the well-stocked drinks

cabinet. Spear found a bottle of rare Umbran brandy and smashed it open at the neck.

He doused the bare skin of his arms with the rich, peaty liquid and the tendrils

flinched. Then, he tore open the lid of a humidor on a nearby desk and took the evertaper

from within. At the touch of his thumb, it lit and he jabbed it into the skin. A

coating of bluish flame engulfed his hands and he bunched his fists, letting the pain

seep into him.