Neon lights cut through the dense, dark purple clouds. Sinister spires stretched towards the sky, receding into the distance. Below, mad screams and eerie wails could be heard. These sounds, mixed with gunshots, turned the world into a grotesque and insane cacophony, like the tolling of bells before the end of the world.
He made some guttural sound.
"What are your orders, Captain Anrek?" someone asked from behind him.
Anrek didn't need to turn around to know who it was – Rikhtnal, his former blade master. However, honestly, Anrek didn't really want to meet him now, let alone talk to him.
Rikhtnal was a serious, stubborn, old-fashioned, and strict man. He was unlike most warriors of the Eighth Legion, but the reason for Anrek's reluctance to communicate with him was not his character, but simply that he didn't want to talk right now.
But he had to answer.
"Everything is fine," Anrek replied over the comms. "Just thinking."
"I see."
Rikhtnal replied briefly and fell silent.
He was always like this – outside of combat or situations requiring his intervention, he could be surprisingly silent, as befits a warrior of the Eighth Legion.
Looking at the hellish scene unfolding below, Anrek couldn't help but wonder.
"What kind of world is this?" he thought. "How could people have fallen to this without any reason?"
After a short orbital drop, twenty thousand warriors of the Eighth Legion dispersed, beginning their "banquet." They were accustomed to this – operating in small, scattered groups was their usual tactic.
But Nostramo was different.
Nostramo was different from all the worlds they had fought on, from all the sins they had seen.
"And here I thought I already knew how to spell the word 'sin'..."
Anrek smirked sarcastically and, without warning, jumped off the spire where he had taken cover.
Raindrops slid down his visor, data lines scrolled by. Behind him, the whistle of the wind could be heard – it was the sound of Rikhtnal falling. Tonight, he would act with Anrek.
But how to act?
This hive city called Quintus was the embodiment of madness. His brothers rushed between the upper and lower levels, and the comm channel was filled with curses and whispers.
The previously silent warriors of the Eighth Legion now described the scenes they saw one by one over the comms – scenes from hell.
Mutilated bodies.
Aristocrats, drugged, with powdered faces, dancing among naked corpses.
Dissected bodies wrapped in black cloth and hung in butcher shops.
Ghoulish gangs at crematoria, more like sub-humans than humans.
And children. Children used as soldiers.
Anrek landed confidently on the roof of one of the buildings. Under his helmet, his face contorted into a grimace.
"Rikhtnal, your thoughts?" he asked briefly. "How do you think we should act in this hive called Quintus?"
"Eleven scattered squads are already clearing the Underhive, my captain."
Rikhtnal stubbornly called Anrek captain. After landing, his right hand did not leave the hilt of the power sword at his belt.
Warriors of the Eighth Legion preferred not to use firearms in covert operations.
"Yes. And then what? I need concrete suggestions, Rikhtnal."
"I am no longer your deputy," the stubborn man replied. "Therefore, I cannot give you advice unless you return to your position."
"That will be decided tomorrow. The Primarch will tell us what to do at tomorrow's meeting. So stop clinging to formalities, Rikhtnal."
Anrek crouched down, and his dark blue armor blended into the night mist.
Some madmen rushed through the streets, darting from one alley to another. They shouted some hissing phrase, waving their weapons, and smeared their faces with blood.
Observing them, Anrek noticed a common symbol – these people carved it into their foreheads. It was carved so deeply that blood flowed from the wound all over their faces.
"These inscriptions."
As if reading his thoughts, Rikhtnal quietly said in High Gothic:
"My captain... did you notice?"
"Of course, I noticed."
Anrek calmly stood up, and his power armor hummed. He moved to the other side of the building and watched as one of the madmen disappeared into an alley.
"Some kind of cult?" Rikhtnal asked quietly.
"Not necessarily... but I'm not ruling it out. Adephiman from the Third Company said he encountered something strange in another hive. I didn't listen to him and cut off the connection, but it's unlikely there was anything better than the stories of the others. This is a hellish planet, Rikhtnal. Is there really fertile ground for cults here?"
"People always need faith."
"People?"
Anrek laughed, and his voice, hoarse from suppressed anger, rasped in the speaker:
"Do you call these creatures people?"
"If you judge by appearance... yes," Rikhtnal replied indifferently and jumped off the building.
He had already understood what his captain had in mind. Such mutual understanding did not require words.
Anrek followed him. They landed silently in a dark alley.
The loud sound of landing was almost completely absorbed by several cushioning jolts, as well as a wall of insane rain and the distant echo of gunshots.
In the darkness, they froze, watching their prey approach from another alley.
He was shirtless, his emaciated body covered in puncture marks.
He had a deathly pale face, his black eyes darted madly from side to side, and the blood oozing from the wound on his forehead turned his face into a chaotic and abstract picture, as if painted by a mad artist.
Without further ado, Anrek grabbed him.
He was frightened at first, but then, recognizing the huge figure of Anrek in the dim light, he somehow calmed down.
The cultist began to cry, then to laugh, continuing to deepen the inscription on his forehead with his dagger. Blood gushed out, but his hand pressed harder each time and did not stop.
Rikhtnal approached, grabbed him by the throat, and ended his pathetic life. Anrek leaned the corpse against the wall, crouched down, and, peering at the bloody forehead, memorized the alien script.
"Cult."
"And most likely, they worship an image associated with death," Rikhtnal said. "The stature of this image is probably similar to ours, otherwise he wouldn't have been so calm seeing you."
"You always like to speculate."
"Just a reasonable assumption based on the available facts, Captain. What shall we do? Investigate this cult? In my experience, cults in such hives always lead to something darker."
"Your experience is less than mine."
Anrek shook his head, continuing to examine the corpse carefully, but without stopping the conversation with Rikhtnal.
"Logically, there shouldn't be only one cult here."
"This hive is not small, Rikhtnal... Honestly, I don't understand how this world has fallen so low."
"Before, the fall we saw could always be explained. Even slave traders, hiding behind merchant ships, did it for money. But what about Nostramo?"
"This madness seems causeless, as if it has always been here. But we have seen technological achievements here too, haven't we? Even ordinary air filters on some planets are an unattainable dream..."
Anrek sighed with a slight melancholy.
"They could have become better. Why did they fall so low?"
Rikhtnal did not answer.
Anrek frowned slowly.
Rikhtnal was not always silent. Now was not the time for silence.
"What is happening?"
Anrek breathed calmly, but his right hand, resting on his knee, began to move slowly backward. He had a bolter on his belt, securely fastened to his strap. It could only be removed by gripping the handle; any other movement...
Anrek's movement froze.
He did not feel the pistol. He had performed this movement millions of times; he knew his weapon like the back of his hand, but...
He did not feel his weapon.
His fingers touched only empty air, not the hard handle.
"Vengeful Spirit."
A voice, with a hint of thoughtfulness, sounded in the dark alley. Then came the sound of a detached bolter magazine. Anrek knew this sound too well to be mistaken.
He stiffly stood up and, slowly turning around, saw a giant twice his height looking down at him.
Rikhtnal leaned against the wall behind him, silent, his right hand still on the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it. His posture was extremely awkward, and even through the power armor, his confusion was visible.
"Lord Lohars," Anrek greeted him, bowing his head. "What are you doing here?"
"In a sense, this hell is my home. So why shouldn't I be here?"
"Are you also participating in this banquet?"
"I was invited, wasn't I? You were there yourself when I was invited, Anrek."
Kariel smirked and returned the bolter to Anrek.
"Sorry for taking your weapon, it was a necessary measure. I wouldn't want shots from such a weapon to ring out in Quintus tonight."
Anrek awkwardly took the pistol, inserted the magazine with a click, and hung the weapon back on his belt.
"So... Vengeful Spirit?" he asked. "What does that mean? Can you clarify it a little?"
"This inscription," Kariel nodded with his chin. "The inscription he carved on his forehead means 'Vengeful Spirit' in the Nostramo language."
"Vengeful Spirit?" Anrek repeated. "A cult?"
"Strictly speaking, yes, a cult. Although it hasn't existed for long, less than two weeks."
"They worship this vengeful ghost?" Anrek asked with seriousness in his voice.
"Yes. They see in him an all-powerful, omnipresent embodiment of murder, a huge shadow that appears only in the darkness... But what's funny is that they don't understand the word 'vengeful' in this ghost's name."
Kariel smirked:
"They don't know who he is avenging... Funny, isn't it?"
'I don't see anything funny here, sir,' Anrek thought.
But the question arose in his mind again.
Who was Kariel Lohars?
"Do you know Nostramo well?"
"What, do you want me to give you a tour?"
"If you say so, then perhaps, yes."
"Remove the address, and I'll agree," Kariel smirked. His face was relaxed, but his voice was calm. "I don't like being addressed with titles."
"Kariel Lohars?"
"Kariel or Lohars. The full name sounds too official, doesn't it, Anrek Barbatus?"
The tall giant smirked and the next moment jumped up, disappearing from the alley. His voice came from above:
"Follow me, Anrek, Rikhtnal... I will keep my promise."
The former captain of the Eighth Company and his deputy exchanged glances and silently began to climb upwards.
They couldn't jump that high.
...
Honestly, if Anrek had been asked, he would have answered directly.
But now no one was asking.
So he only felt a certain absurdity in what was happening – such a powerful giant living in such a dilapidated house?
Standing with his back to them, Kariel spoke. His voice was still calm, and nothing could be understood from it.
"Well? The first stop on our tour of Quintus."
"What is this place, Kariel?" Anrek asked, pausing and swallowing the address that was ready to escape his lips.
This action brought a smile to the giant. Approval was obvious, but for some reason, Anrek felt a strange unpleasant feeling.
He suppressed it with annoyance and threw it aside.
"This is Sanctuary. Or rather, a house I built myself from scavenged junk. Hmm... although I consider it a home, one of the recent guests claimed that I have very poor construction skills."
He smiled again. And now neither Anrek nor Rikhtnal could understand whether Kariel was joking or not.
But the giant didn't explain anything.
"See that door?" Kariel asked quietly.
Of course, they saw it. How could they not notice it? The door was so striking that it looked extremely out of place and strange against the background of rusty iron and rotten boards.
"It seems you're not as bad at construction as you say, Kariel. This door looks very sturdy."
Anrek heard his deputy – the former deputy – say this. Rikhtnal's voice was calm, but due to their long acquaintance, Anrek perfectly caught notes of confusion in it.
"Really?" Kariel asked thoughtfully. "Thank you for the compliment, Rikhtnal. But this door is not my work. I don't have the skills to make such a door."
He walked over and wiped the surface of the door with his hand. On the panel, blackened by the murky acid rain, an image of a black fist on a white background appeared.
If not for his helmet, Anrek would have rubbed his eyes now.
What did he see?
"Is this the emblem of the former Seventh Legion, and now the Imperial Fists, Lord Kariel?"
Rikhtnal blurted out the question, adding the address again. But this time, Kariel didn't correct him. He turned around and nodded calmly:
"Yes."
"Were the Imperial Fists on Nostramo before us?"
The blade master of the Eighth Company slowly clenched the hilt of the sword at his belt.
"Lord, can we have an explanation?"
"They were not. Their Primarch was," Kariel replied briefly.
Silence ensued. Anrek sharply inhaled the filtered air, and Rikhtnal staggered.
How could they not understand the hint hidden in these words?
And Kariel continued:
"The Emperor and several of his sons were here before you... What, you didn't know? Didn't anyone notify you?"
"No, Kariel," Anrek managed to say with difficulty. "We only knew that our Primarch had been found. We don't know anything else."
"Hmm..."
Kariel shook his head with a smirk.
"This is unexpected for me."
He walked carelessly to the wall of the building and turned away. Taking advantage of the moment, Rikhtnal quickly approached and began to carefully examine the sturdy door.
Anrek was about to join him, but he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Kariel was turning around.
"Rikhtnal, there's nothing to examine there. It's just a door," Kariel said with a smile. "No need to study it so closely..."
The blade master of the Eighth Legion straightened up sharply.
"Lately, I've just become interested in architecture and design."
He switched to ornate High Gothic and began a long tirade that gave Anrek a headache.
"I believe this door is a rare treasure created by the Primarch himself. Therefore, I cannot suppress my pursuit of beauty. Please forgive me for such a bold attitude towards this door."
"Rikhtnal has indeed become interested in architecture and design lately," Anrek said with difficulty. Today he stumbled so often that he felt uneasy himself.
But whatever the case, he had to smooth over the awkwardness somehow, otherwise the situation would become completely uncomfortable.
Kariel smiled, shook his head, and, without saying anything, easily changed the subject. Rikhtnal looked gratefully at his captain, and Anrek's face contorted under his helmet.
However, Kariel didn't torment him with this awkwardness for long.
"I would like to ask you something," he began calmly. "Do you mind if we talk, Anrek, Rikhtnal?"
***
Read the story months before public release — early chapters are on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan