Melina entered the key code into the pic set. A moment latter the pic screen displayed the word "connecting" and then it showed a picture of the Illustrious Prince Hash Vandersal. "Melina," he smiled weakly, "what a pleasure."

"I'm sure," she purred. "I was just wondering when you're going to have another of your wonderful parties."

"Um soon," he replied distractedly.

"Well, I kind of promised my cousin Tolesan that I could take him some place really spectacular. Naturally, I meant your party."

"Tolesan? He's interested?" She had his full attention now.

"Why yes. Didn't I say? But if you aren't going to have one, then I'll have to think of something else. A pity. He was interested in being among all the best people and I so built up his expectations about the event. Oh well."

"Wait!" Hash cried. "We uh, I mean I can schedule one soon, if it would mean so much to your cousin. We would be delighted to have more members of House Sevall among us."

"Excellent!" She smiled and clapped her hands together. "Thank you!"

"I'll have a man sent around with the invitations."

"Wonderful. You're my savior." She batted her eyes and the screen went dark. She clicked a button. "Well, they really did want me for access to my family."

"Yes," said Gix. The inquisitor was standing behind the pic screen. "But they would have found other uses for you as well. I doubt you would have been willing to debase yourself to the level necessary to become a luminary in the cult. After they had used you up you would have become one of its victims."

She shuddered. "Now what?"

"We continue to make life miserable for those poor unfortunates in the slums. Hopefully we'll remove a large number of criminals and parasites in the process. I wouldn't even be surprised if we found a real cult in there. Let the Slaaneshi get comfortable with all the activity. They throw their party. We crash it while targeting decapitation strikes at every other known member. The cult collapses, the Inquisition takes control, and we burn them out."

"And things go back to the way they were," she said sadly.

"No. We build it back better."

"You say that like you mean it."

"It can be done. It has been done. It will be done." Gix's tone invited no dissent.

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Arbites Rhinos patrolled the streets. The rich and powerful were not to be disturbed by xenos cultists or the rioting touched off by the Inquisition purge. As always, the powers that be took care of its own. Or so they thought.

The armoured stretch limousine bearing the Sevall crest was let through the gates around Vandershal's town house. As a cadet branch of the ruling family, the Vandershals were permitted to own homes near the commander's palace. Over the millenia such favors had been granted many times and space was at a premium. The town houses grew up rather than sprawled sideways and had little room for courtyards or parking.

So the limousine parked at the curb and the driver stepped back to open the door. Melina Sevall, a masked man about her height wearing fabulous black silks, and a huge brute wearing Sevall livery exited the vehicle. The liveried guards nodded respectfully. She was expected and late beyond the standard that was fashionable.

The limousine wasn't leaving, which was odd. The Royal Sector had a building dedicated to parking and was walled off from the rest of the city. Visitors sent their vehicles there and recalled them when they wished to leave. So why wasn't the limo leaving?

The masked man tossed something forward and a haywire burst fried monitoring and coms equipment. Less than a second latter the footmen's brains blew out the back of their skulls. Inquisition snipers on a roof two hundred meters away tracked for new targets. The Rhinos stopped and opened their ramps. Inquisition armsmen, Sororitas, and Abrites poured toward the house.

The armsman by Melina escorted her back, pistol drawn. Keys waited, grinning behind his mask as two huge figures exited the limo. One was Hethor D'eckor in full battle armour with an armature mounted drum fed cannon at the ready. The other was Jolan Gix is matte black power armour with the Inquisition's symbol marked in gold.

The troops had only been informed of their true mission minutes ago. There had been no time for leaks. Inquisition lead strike teams were acting simultaneously all over the planet. The hammer of the Emperor's wrath was descending.

A servant gasped as dark armoured Inquisition stormtroopers charged down the hall. Hellguns struck her in the hip, abdomen, and chest. The water in her tissues flash vaporized and her body was propelled backwards in a mist of blood. Maps of the nameless target had been distributed and studied. The killers knew exactly where to go.

The descended to the basement with the Arbites right behind them. The area was littered with storage boxes, but a clear path lead to a door guarded by a pair of guards in scarlet and gold They gunned down the surprised staff before they could react. The liveried bodies slumped. The stormtroopers waited for ten seconds as Arbites came down the stairs behind them and then opened the armoured door. A long stairway was revealed. Grenades bounced down the steps, followed closely by Arbiters with bolt pistols and charged suppression shields. Loud, hypnotic music and screams came from the area below.

The grenades detonated in a series of loud bangs, spraying the area with shrapnel. The Arbiters stormed forward. A vast room was revealed. A sunken pit in the middle dominated the room. Above it was a raised dais attached to the ceiling. Sections of the room were partially obscured by silk curtains. Directly ahead luminaries lounged on a mound of pillows.

What was occurring on the dais and within the pit would haunt hardened Arbiters for the rest of their days. Men who had seen the rat gnawed corpses of children, women raped and brutalized and passed around from gang to gang, and men broken on the autorack were appalled. Some hesitated in horror.

An explosive round decapitated a monstrous mutant that was ****** three prepubescent children simultaneous on the dais. Bolt pistols roared. A grenade launcher was leveled.

The Arbiter the the grenade launcher slid to the floor with his eyes glazed. The two with the suppression shields fell screaming, clawing at their eyes. The servants of dread Chaos were not without resources.

Some of the cultists had begun to realize, despite their drugged stupor, that they were in danger. The struggled up to run or to hide. Combat shotguns opened up with executioner rounds. Hellguns fired bolt after blazing bolt into the crowd. Limbs were severed from bodies, torsos blown open, and head exploded. Blood spray mixed with other fluids as the revelers died in droves. A few armed cultists fired back. They succeeded in attracting murderous retaliatory fire.

A stormtrooper staggered and suddenly turned on his comrades. A sustained blast of from his plasma gun turned two others into char. A crimson hellgun blast took him in the neck and he dropped. A wave of blue fire passed over the Arbiters and left nothing but ash.

A white flashed ate part of the ceiling. It was a four meter drop to the floor. Two Sororitas plunged down through the hole. One had a flamer, the other a bolter. They started killing. Heretics became screaming torches or were blown apart. They advanced and two more sisters of battle descended. As the boots of the second pair of sisters touched the floor Jolan Gix, Harad, and Hethor D'eckor descended the stairs.

The Psy King cursed. He recognized Gix's mind flavor and that did not worry him, but the psyker in the gold armour was even stronger than Gix. The priestess of Slaanesh beside him quivered. The other psyker was already striking telepathically. More troops were coming all the time and all of them had received conditioning which made them damned hard to take over.

Time to throw in the losing hand. Gix was clever, for an Imperial, the Psy King would give him that. He had hopes of using the Slaaneshi to serve Tzeentch's interests but that was clearly not to be. It was going to be hard enough to just get out alive. The Psy King directed his pets forward while he made for the bolt hole behind the cushions. An executioner round swerved away from him and two hellgun blasts dissipated into bursts of light. Blessed was he who walked the path of the Changer of the Ways.

He tore down the tapestry and slid open the door. Easy enough. When he managed to get free of this rock he was going to half to do something about those surviving inquisitors from Adraxis. Sending Jolan Gix the way of Nathan Talstrem and sending Pater Novum to meet his late mentor had just been made priorities.

Four robe acolytes had been standing next to the Psy King and other dignitaries. They still stood, despite two of them having been sprayed with shrapnel and another being hit twice with hellgun fire. They tore off their robes and sprung forward. Behind them the Slaaneshi priestess writhed on the ground, blood pouring from her ears, mouth, nostrils and eyes. She had lost her battle against Inquisitor Harad.

The acolytes' bodies were covered in charms and branded runes. Their eyes glowed with green fire. Fingers were tipped with claws, bodies armoured in scales and distorted plates of bones. They were hosts to soldier daemons and tightly bound.

The lead daemonhost reached the first battle sister. Promethium had set it alight and bolters rounds had cratered its unnatural tough flesh. It's claws tore through ceramite armour and gouged out her throat. She fell, her combat knife buried in the daemon's guts.

It stepped forward to slay the next sister. She pointed the bulky meltagun in her hands at its chest and pulled the trigger. An white hot blast reduced the daemonhost to ash and smoking bones. The rest fell on the battle sisters.

Bolters fired and chainswords hacked. Warp reinforced flesh parted and bled. They clawed through ceramite and merely mortal flesh. Gouged, bloody, and battered they slew. The tossed body parts of the slain at the Imperials and howled. If the Sororitas could not stand against them, what chance did the others have?

A lance of blue-white flame struck the lead daemon. Ash was blasted away from shriveled sticks of bone as the flames burned the flesh and the daemon's spirit. It howled as Jolan Gix obliterated it. The other two lunged forward to seize and kill the inquisitor.

Hethor's cannon fired. Large caliber silver slugs, inscribed with runes of anathema and blessed in an Imperial cathedral, tore through the daemonhosts as if they were mortal. The burst tore them almost in half. White fire blazed from the bullet holes. Hethor lowered the gun and fired again as Gix propelled himself across the room with a surge of telekinetic force.

He ran through the concealed corridor. The Psy King was just ahead, he could feel his presence. "No more escapes! This time I will end you!"

The Psy King turned, wrapped in a corona of pink fire and blue mist. His current body was slim, red haired, and devilishly handsome. He was clad in dark blue silks. "Do you think so Gix? Remember these?" He held up a small glass orb that swirled with the light of a dozen stolen souls. He crushed it and the power flowed into him. His eyes blazed silver. "Now, who will be needing to escape from whom, I wonder?"

The first time he had fought Gix, he had easily overwhelmed the inquisitor. The last time he had faced off against Gix it had been very different. The energy of his soul traps had been depleted, Gix had given himself a dose of spook to boost his powers, and a wild psyker had been there to support Gix. Of course, he had also had his force rod then. His body had burned and his soul had been forced to flee. It wouldn't be the case this time.

He probed the probabilities. He couldn't read those around Gix. The inquisitor had obviously learned new tricks. Previously he had been able to see the flows and patterns of Gix's attacks before he launched them. Parrying and syphoning the power from Gix's attacks had been easy. Now it was like trying to see through mud.

He attacked, aggressive as always. An intense lance of warp fire, even stronger than he remembered and more tightly focused to blaze through shields. A telekinetic hammer blow followed a moment behind in the lance's wake. He countered the flame lance, dispersing it's killing force through the corridor. It was far from easy. The hammer blow knocked him back a step. Gix was already readying an additional attack. One had to give the inquisitor credit. He was an champion at this kind of fight.

But he wasn't strong enough to win, even with the dosage of spook that was undoubtedly flowing through his veins. A wave of blue flame flew down the corridor at Gix. It broke apart around him as the inquisitor began to syphon away the Psy King's own strength. Where had he picked up that trick? The Psy King disrupted the syphon with a sharp thrust of warp power and sent streamers of pastel colour at Gix.

The streamers dissolved gouges walls where the brushed against them. Gix smashed them into motes of colour which flashed against his conversion shield and ate little holes in the walls, floor, and ceiling. In the warp a spike covered leach of pure malice erupted from Gix and sped through the towards the Psy King.

Gix had been a complete tyro on the mental plane, barely able to do much more than guard himself. Now his creation was boring into the Psy King's defences to ravage his brain. A psychic scream of pure rage shredded the spiky black leach. Gix was strong and fast and only had to hold him here until more Imperial's came. He had to drop the inquisitor now.

Bolts of green witch fire flashed down the corridor from Gix's force rod. The Psy King didn't try to counter. They smashed into his wardings, burning them up. Heat leaked through, scorching his flesh. He gritted his teeth and retaliated.

A wave of royal blue and scarlet blades of telekinetic force flashed towards Gix and he seized the air around Gix and filled it with pink fire. A halo of light surrounded the inquisitor as his counter bled away energy and his conversion field transmuted deadly warp power into harmless light bursts. Some of the killing power got through but Gix's power armour saved him from the blade storm. Gix managed to deflect most of the blades, although several hits scarred his armour. A massive force lance followed up.

Gix couldn't block it. It smashed through his defences and sent the inquisitor reeling as the discharge of forces cracked the walls and ceiling. The Psy King sent spikes of hatred to assail Gix's mind. Gix cried out and the force rod dropped from his hand. The Psy King struck.

Not at Gix, who's defences were still holding and he was protected by power armour and a conversion field. At the ceiling above him. Thunder filled the corridor as an avalanche of rubble buried the inquisitor.

The Psy King smiled as Gix's force rod floated into his hand. Only fair that the inquisitor's replace the one he had cost him after all. Too bad the rubble protected Gix as much as it pinned him and that he didn't have the time to spend finishing off the inquisitor. At least the rubble filled section of the corridor would obstruct further pursuit.

The Psy King turned around. A short jog to the concealed exit and then he would be able to reach his bolt holes and place his contingencies in motion. He would escape and work Tzeentch's will again.

The current passed through the warp and it opened into real space in front of him. A big blond bearded man wearing gold washed armour stepped out from the Sea of Souls. The man smiled at him. In other circumstances it might have seemed friendly but it was filled with menace. "Jolan Gix was never better than second best at anything and he only scored tenth in our psi combat classes. Never higher than tenth. Now you get to deal with number one."

Power rolled from Harad like an ocean. The Psy King had already burnt through all the power in his soul trap. He pulled out another glass sphere full of shining lights. "As a matter of fact I look forward to killing Jolan Gix's friends."

The Psy King smiled as Harad curled his hands into claws and pointed them at him. The psyker was strong, but he could see the shape the power was going to take. Warp lightning flashed towards the Psy King, only to fade away harmlessly about a meter away. The Psy King struck back.

Pink fire burst forth from the force rod and rushed towards Harad. The inquisitor raised his hands to ward of the the Tzeentchian sorcery. He succeeded. Embers of pink flame fell around Harad, but did not touch him. The PsyKing took another step forward as he sent splinters of telepathic malice burrowing towards Harad's brain and began to siphon warp energy away from the inquisitor. Harad may have been stronger than Gix, but he didn't fight as well.

A ghostly hammer of telekinetic force formed and the Psy King blocked it with a telekinetic shield. Thunder rolled through the corridor in the wake of the impact. Harad may have been the much stronger than Jolan decades ago, but now he wasn't that much stronger than Gix. He was slower, his attacks were obvious, and he didn't have Gix's skill or killer instinct. Harad just picked up a mass of warp power, shaped it, and tossed it. But he was strong and Gix could recover any moment and begin telekinetically digging himself out of the rubble. If he was trapped between them, that would be the end of him.

Harad shook off the brain splinters and through up a wall of flame that raced down the corridor. The Psy King leveled Gix's force rod and blew a hole in it as it swept over him. Easy. Then the flames wrapped around him like a wet blanket. His shields blazed as they were consumed.

The Psy King threw out his arms and unleashed a shockwave of raw power that shook the corridor and extinguished the flames. Frost formed on the fire blackened walls and floor He psychically slapped away a telekinetic lance that cratered the wall next to him and unleashed an intense bolt of lightning. Harad wasn't able to deflect all of it. Enough force leaked through to stagger him. The Psy King closed in warp accelerated blur.

He poked Harad in the chest and unleashed a cruel and terrible sorcery. At touch range the burst of warp energy burrowed through Harad's defences and poured into his flesh. Harad fell and twitched and his skin began to glow. And then he changed.

The bones of his face shifted. His forehead and jaw pushed out. A cluster of tumors sprouted on his right cheek and then opened up to reveal eyes. His shoulders twisted and dislocated themselves. He opened his mouth and all that came out were bestial howls.

Smiling, the Psy King telekinetically shoved the drooling mutant against the wall and out of his way as he jogged down the escape corridor. Gix had too much strength left and reinforcements were too close for him to risk finishing the inquisitor at this time. There would be other opportunities. For the servants of the Architect of Fate, the future held everything.

Chunks of earth and concrete began to roll away from the mound of rubble. Larger and larger pieces were dislodged and then the Gix blasted himself free of the rubble. The inquisitor started forward and then stopped. The Psy King was gone, but he was not alone.

The drooling thing covered in eyes and oozing sores was still recognizable as his friend, if only because of the shreds of clothing and armour it still wore. A fin sprouted from his back and an extra pair of stunted limbs was growing from its rib cage. But the original pair of eyes were still the same.

Jolan Gix leveled his bolt pistol and did the only thing he could to help his friend.

Gix shuffled reports around on his desks. Raids, interrogations, informants, block sweeps, and strictly controlled emigration had yielded thousands of traitors and heretics. Those that were taken alive were ground up through a process that produced more interrogations and usually ended in executions or servitor conversion. The purge had been extensive and thorough.

Innocent people had been swept up and destroyed by the heretic hunt, possibly as many innocent as truly guilty. Even an inquisitor as meticulous as Gix who keenly appreciated the kind of damage an excessive purge could do erred on the side of making sure that all the guilty were caught. As the old saying went, better than ten innocent men should die than one guilty man go free. Gix was haunted by one guilty man in particular.

The Psy King had escaped his grasp. He was a wanted man hunted by kill teams, psi trackers, and Gix's increasingly accurate clairvoyant powers. And nothing. If Jolan had been the kind of man to vent his wrath on others, the Officio Inquisition's hall would be full of corpses.

His door buzzer went off. He punched the intercom key. "Enter," he said.

Hethor D'eckor stepped in. The big veteran was wearing a maroon armoured bodyglove and had his bolt pistol and power sword hilt on his weapon belt. His gaze swept the room. It was sparsely decorated, with smooth black plas desk, a form contouring chair, and an ebony and brass cogitator box and screen. Gix had brought only two personal items. One was a picture of a platoon of young Cadian soldiers in antique uniform, posing for a picture. The other was of a small icon box of adamantium. Inside it rested a picture of the Emperor. "How's it going boss?" he asked.

"Nothing," was Gix's bitter reply. "He's eluded me. Again. I seem to have a knack only for catching small fry or fish too damned big to pull into the boat. He's gotten away again."

"You sure?"

"It fits," replied Gix. "No sign of him. He's a telepath and a teleport. Those two talents together make him difficult to stop with security sweeps. My gut tells me he's gone. So do my Tarot readings." He flung a sheaf of flimsies down in disgust.

Hethor shrugged. "What does Danell think?"

Jolan leaned back. "He thinks he's either burrowed into the ground so deep we're unlikely to find him if we haven't already or that he's skipped the planet."

"Boss, he got away. It happens. It's not something to count on. He'll slip up. We'll get him."

"How much more damage will he do before someone gets another shot at him? When will that be?" Gix shook his head. "Bah. Too much like self pity. He's eluded me, might as well admit it. Our time here is at an end."

"What's happening?"

"Witch cult problems on Stregata Secundus. This world is well in hand. Orders. Even inquisitors have to obey orders."

Hethor nodded. "I'll let the others know." He hesitated. "Do you want to tell Melina yourself?" The noble woman had demonstrated an attachment to Gix that she didn't share with the rest of his people.

"No," he replied. "I'm afraid I've over indulged her. Despite having people's brains cut out of their skulls, electrografted into programmed idiocy, and then wired to machine bodies it appears that I still have soft spots. She's no good to us if she can't play the queen ***** and won't back the rest of us up when the weather gets rough."

"Got it boss," Hethor replied. He'd handled his share of green recruits before. He'd made a lot of them decent soldiers. Most of them had ended up face down in the mud or blown apart, but that was life in his regiment. Between the officers and the commissars, the soldiers of the Imperial Guard didn't need any more enemies.

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The Psy King entered the vaulted room. The battle shutters had been raised and the windows had a spectacular view of the poisonous clouds of gas giant Talona. "A beautiful view captain."

"The credit goes to my pilot. He's the one who plotted this course."

"Then pass my compliments," said the Psy King. He sat down opposite the captain. "I appreciate the pick up."

"We have done well together, you and I. Still, helping you leave no questions asked was not easy. Or without risk."

"I owe you, no question."

"I'm glad we understand each other. As a matter of fact, I do have a task you can help me with."

"I'd be delighted to," the Psy King lied. "Is this our last game?" the Psy King said, gesturing towards the regicide board and its pieces of white and green jade.

"Yes, I had the positions recorded. It's your move."

"Lord?"

"Yes," he said studying the regicide board.

"Why did you help him? He is a servant of chaos."

"He is a useful servant of chaos. He is arrogant and craves attention. He draws too much of it on him and those around him. By joining cults he destroys them."

"Do we know that he always does this? We only see his failures, not his successes. And the damage he does-"

"Is necessary. You worry too much. And he keeps Gix busy."

"Your will, my lord."

"Yes, Aledail, my will."

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The Star Eyed Dreamer plowed through the Immaterium. At the helm was Navigator Nickos Faranja, the warp eye in his forehead peering into the currents of the warp, navigating using the beacon of the Astronomican. The Geller Field shielded all those inside from the horrors of the warp. The harsh realities of Inquisitional work were not so easily avoided.

Iriza Vess was a petite woman with dark hair that fell to her shoulders. The astropath's eyes were augmentics. Beside her stood the golden skinned goddess Melina Sevall. Both women were notable if you looked at them, although the demure Vess was easier to miss. Danell Keyes looked ordinary. A little on the pale side, average height. Dark hair, not bad looking. Nothing extraordinary about his physique, his lithe musculature hidden under clothes.

The extraordinarily deadly assassin stood in front of a table of neatly arrayed deadly weapons. "Neither of you ladies is expected to be one of the front line fighters, but we all go into dangerous territory. So you need to be able to take care of yourselves."

Iriza nodded. Melina waved her hand. "I've had some training," she said languidly.

"Good," said Keyes, "then this won't be unfamiliar to you. We'll start with las weapons, because they are the easiest. Iriza, choose one."

"Me?" she asked. "Okay." She shuffled forward and peered at the guns. She hesitated. "This one," she said.

"Pick it up," Keyes said. "Be careful not to point it at anybody. It doesn't have a power cell in it, but safety is an important habit."

"Okay," she said as she picked up the standard issue Imperial Guard laspistol. "Oh. It's heavier than I thought."

"That's right," said Keyes. "That's what I thought at first as well." At the age of six, but that was a different matter entirely. "Now-" A rumble through the ship interrupted him. "I hate the warp." Then the ship lurched and shuddered. "Throne!"

Jolan Gix rose from the couch and touched his vox. "Nickos, what's happening?"

"Warp turbulence and getting worse! It came up all of a sudden! Inquisitor, I'm going to break for real space as soon as we can make exit. This is-" The ship rocked, "really bad." Another shudder.

"Do it!" confirmed Gix, not doubting his Navigator would do it anyway. The ship gave another sickening shudder and then Gix was knocked off his feet and thrown into his book case. Jolan managed to put his arms in front of his face and raise a telekinetic shield before smashing into armoured case and bouncing off.

"Transition!" screamed Nickos over the vox. Gix picked himself up. His forearms were bruised from the impact.

"All stations, give me a damage report," Jolan ordered. Servitor drones and his people would give him results soon enough. He walked towards the bridge.

It was empty, except for a pair of servitors. "Nickos?" he called over the vox.

"In the enginarium. Inquisitor, we're boned. And the biggest, nastiest Tyranid warbeast you've ever imagined is doing the boning. The warp drive is shot."

Gix began heading aft. "How bad?"

"It's melted," Nickos. "Not even Gard can work with that."

"Sanguinus's blood," swore Gix. "Did you get our location?" he said heading back to the bridge. If they were in an inhabited system . . . .

"Yeah, the boonies. I checked before we left the bridge. We got blown to the edge of IXP-23. Junk system. Occasional asteroid or gas mining."

"Well, I guess it is time to call upon the expertise of our resident astropath."

"Inquisitor, this is not a safe system. We may not want to be found by whatever gets to us first."

They waited in the cold, the ships systems powered down to almost nothing. An astropathic message had been set out and the ship itself was coasting slowly towards the inner system. Everything was on minimal power. Now it was a race between the void, pirates, and rescue.

Most of them had donned cold weather gear. Jolan had put on his power armour. Lights were down as well. Only the flickering tell tales on the instruments lit the bridge. It had been two days. No contact, no nothing. Melina shivered into her furs. It seemed as if the ship had become a coffin.

There was a beep from a panel. Eyes turned towards it. Nickos's head snapped around. He leapt from his chair towards the side panel. "Contact," he whispered. "The odds held."

"Who?" asked Gix.

"Plasma thrusters, shielded reactor. Void shield emissions."

"So not Eldar, Tau, or Necrons," said Jolan. "What else?"

"Not big. Smaller than a cruiser. Frigate sized or thereabouts."

Iriza went still. "Lord, I am receiving a message. As follows: Star Eyed Dreamer , we have received your distress signal. Are moving to render assistance. ETA two solar hours. Fool's Wager out."

"**** me with chainsword," Hethor cursed.

"What's wrong?" Melina asked.

"We know this ship. We met her and her captain-"

"And her security *****," Hethor interrupted.

"-and her security chief on Adraxis. Our meeting was somewhat tempestuous. They may decide to try and kill me, out here and in the dark with no witnesses. On the other hand, I did end up giving them a good turn."

"Sound complicated," Melina remarked.

"It is. The short version is that their captain died helping put down a cultist uprising and that in a meeting with her new captain there security chief lined up to gun me down. We dug, not very nicely, for secrets and didn't find anything treasonous, although there was a questionable change of command. They left with an Inquisition warrant supporting the authenticity of certain trading rights, which figured in a dispute they were having. It depends if they value their pocket book more than their pride."

"Pride," said Melina.

"Maybe," said Gix. "Some people have to worry about money. Iriza, answer for Star Eyed Dreamer and Navigator-Captain Nickos Faranja." He nodded at Nickos.

"Tell them: We are grateful for their assistance and await their arrival. Dreamer out."

"What's the plan?" said Hethor.

"They have what, at most five hundred crew on board with another hundred odd armsmen," replied Gix. "If they knew who we were there are three possible avenues if they wish us harm. One, pretend they didn't hear us. Two, blow us out of space. Three, kill us when we come aboard. We remove one and two and hope they don't want to do three."

"And if they do?" asked Gard Vikal. "Hypothetically speaking."

"We kill them all," said Gix.

"Six hundred men?" asked the scientist.

"I didn't say it would be easy," responded the inquisitor. "But consider the alternative."

The Wager coasted next to the smaller ship. Maneuvering thrusters fired, matching velocity and bringing the ships close. An armoured docking corridor extended from the rogue trader vessel to clamp on to the Dreamer's airlock. The hull reverberated at the docking clamps locked on.

It might be possible that the smaller craft might try to overload its plasma reactor to take the rogue trader with it in a blaze of glory, but that wouldn't work very well. The Wager's surveyors would detect that and explosive bolts would jettison the docking corridor. Maneuvering jets would move the Wager away and even if the void shields weren't brought up in time, distance and the trader's armoured hull would minimize damage.

Melina clutched the hell carbine. This was not how she had expected to die. Gix removed his helmet and looked back. "Everyone ready?"

Hethor nodded. Keys responded with a simple, "yes."

"A moment," replied Gard fiddling with one of his cyber orbs. "There," he said and closed the panel. "All ready inquisitor."

"Alright," said Jolan as he hung his helmet on his belt and turned on his conversion field. He wove a further shield of psychic force around his head. "Time for me to go out and meet the Gamblers."

"Jolan," said Hethor, "remember the advice I gave you a long time ago? About these ones?"

"Yes, I haven't forgotten." Smoke them all , had been Hethor's advice (and Severa's for matter) after they had been confronted by resistance and obfuscation as well as crew prepared to kill both of them at the drop of a hat.

"They won't have forgotten either."

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The Gamblers, the armed company of the Fool's Wager , were distributed around the docking bay and in fall back position's in the compartments beyond. They were a well drilled and well equipped force. They had fought and won dozens of engagements on ship and on planetary surfaces. They knew their business, possessed the right tools, and were very good at it.

Lasguns of the highest quality and pair of melta guns were pointed at the entrance of the docking corridor. A pair of crewman manned an autocannon that covered the entrance. If whatever came out was hostile, the Gamblers were ready.

"Gamblers this is the bridge," came a smooth male voice. Synnove controlled a burst of irritation. "The captain wants a word with you."

"Then put her on, you rapscallion," Synnove responded with a touch of affection. He may not have known his father, but Engelier took after him. Too many stories, she thought. Too many stories of the great man.

"Synnove," said Uschi Valk, "status?"

"Fine captain. Everything's under control. Even if that ship is packed to the gills with Traitor Marines, we're ready for them. Now let me do my job."

"Will do," replied Valk. Over the years camaraderie and shared grief had become a comfortable friendship. Adraxis hard left its mark on the Wager and it hadn't been a pleasant one.

The door cycled open. A man wearing black power armour stamped with a gold inquisitional markings stepped through. He wore no helmet. Synnove almost fell over with shock. The scar had faded so it wasn't visible at this range, but there was no mistaking that face. She had seen it often enough in her mind's eye. Inquisitor Jolan Gix.

"Security Chief Synnove," came Jolan's Gix's voice. "I hope you will forgive me for concealing my identity up to this point, but I thought it wise. Me and my crew are grateful for the assistance of the Fool's Wager ."

Synnove's throat went dry. She had not dreamed of this moment. A word or gesture from her and the Gambler's would cut Gix down like ripe wheat. Blood vengeance for the humiliation, pain, and betrayal. Vengeance for the casual conscription of the ship despite all that they had done. Vengeance for assault which had almost caused her to miscarry her son.

Jolan tensed for Synnove's response. The moment the hammer dropped he would detonate a line of blind grenades in front of himself while opening up with his bolt pistol and plasma pistol. Targeting data would be projected on the nearly invisible film eyepiece he wore. While telekinetically seizing the locks on the docking corridor, the cyber orbs would begin to weld them into place. Simultaneously, he would launch spreads of plasma grenades among the gamblers as the first wave of servitors advanced. Hethor would lead the second wave. Keys would sneak behind them and bypass the battle lines to kill and wreck havoc in the rear. The others would move up to support the fighters. A lot of things could go badly wrong and they would be outnumbered by a formidable enemy, but they would at least have a chance. It was the best he could do.

Synnove touched an earpeace, never taking her eyes off Gix. As much as she hated him, her duty was to the ship. Inquisitional trouble was the worst and she had to admit that Gix's intervention in the Wager's dispute with the Ecclesiarchy had been immensely helpful. It was the captain's call.

"Captain," she said in flat tone of voice, "I have the survivors here. They are lead by Jolan Gix."

There was a pause on the other end. She looked into Gix's eyes and saw a sense of eagerness. He anticipated this, she realized. He's ready to fight. All it would take was one misread movement to start a bloodbath, one that Jolan Gix was primed to fight. Just like the first **** time. It's happening all over again, just one a larger scale.

"Syn, don't do anything precipitous."

"Yes boss," she replied. "Where's your attack dog?" she asked Gix.

"Hethor? He's well enough. I didn't want him coming out first to avoid any unpleasantness."

"I was speaking of the *****," Syn replied unable to resist the urge to goad him.

A shadow flashed over his eyes. Oh yes, that was a sore spot. "Captain Valin commands the battlecruiser Lord Vonrilyental . I would suggest a more respectful form of address when you are under Navy guns. They have little enough love for the way Old Charters tend to act as if they were a law unto themselves."

That was a threat and a potent one. If Gix were to disappear, she would notice and definitely point out the rogue trader operating in the area that had bad blood between them and the inquisitor. The Inquisition didn't need hard proof. Gix had shown them that. And if Captain Valin's suspicions weren't satisfied, she might sate her desire for vengeance with her ship's weapon batteries.

"Syn, stand down and send him up. Alone."

Something withered in her breast. "Are you sure?" It was bad to question the captain openly, but despite everything that was telling her it was a bad idea to kill him, she longed to do it."

"Yes. Send him up Syn and stand down. We're traders first and we made a handy profit off the last time we met him. I intend to make this time really cost him."

"Keep him away from-"

"I will. I already sent him out of the bridge. Now send the Inquisitor to my office with a big escort."

"Alright." She spoke up. "Inquisitor Gix, Captain Valk requests your presence in her office. The Gamblers will escort you up."

"Certainly," replied Jolan Gix as if he wasn't prepared to wash the deck in blood. "A moment for me to call forth a companion-"

"Alone," she said. Gix stopped for a moment, calculating and then nodded his head. "As she wishes," he replied. "Lead away."

Captain Uschi Valk waited in her office for Jolan Gix to arrive. Their last meeting, nearly twenty years ago now, had taken place here. Then the inquisitor had held all the cards. Now that was not the case.

She spared a thought for Syn's son, Engelier Fulgenzio. He took after his namesake in every possible way. Gix had been there when Engelier had died, knew what the Wager's captain had meant to them and the crew. There was no sense in making him a potential hostage to the inquisitor. He had objected, of course, but he had obeyed. He had his father's courage as well and the crew all loved him.

The door slid open. The armoured bulk of Jolan Gix strode into the room. Syn and two Gamblers took up the rear. If their presence disturbed him, Gix gave no sign.

He hadn't seemed to have changed much. The armour was new yes and the weapons he carried were different, but it was the same Jolan Gix. Age had not seemed to have touched him, except that his scar had faded. It made sense with the rejuv he had access to, but it was still unsettling. Uschi was keenly aware of the few grey strands that had started to show in her dark hair. "Inquisitor Gix," she said, "we meet again."

"Yes indeed," replied the inquisitor. "Thank you for rendering assistance to my people and myself in our time of need. I will see that you are rewarded for your efforts on our behalf."

"It was the least we could do as loyal Imperial citizens." The expression on Synnove's face did not indicate agreement, but fortunately she was behind the inquisitor.

"My assistance with the Charter bore fruit?" he asked politely as if he hadn't slammed Synnove up against the bulkhead and threatened to torture her to death in front of Uschi's eyes.

"Yes, it lead to a favorable resolution." She regarded him with cold eyes. Gix's affability was a mask, of course. She knew that it could vanish in seconds, but this was different. He had become harder, as she had once told Severa. She had twisted that emotional knife because it had been on of the few tools she had at the moment and it had almost backfired, but that hadn't made her words less true.

"What kind of compensation were you going to offer, inquisitor?"

"Whatever ever is the going rate for the rescue and recovery of high ranking Imperial servants from a dangerous region, perhaps with a sweetener on top." Which was **** high. The warrior's cry for vengeance was being put up against the trader's desire for profit and the good of the ship. Gix was putting a hand on the scales. Well, she had always known he was clever. "I don't think Synn here much likes our company and I imagine much of your crew share her opinion of us. I believe it would be advantageous to assign us out of the way rooms for ourselves and our gear."

He was already assuming victory. Well, he had played it well enough. If things had been different, he might have made a good trader. But if things had been different, Engelier would still be alive and his son would still have a father. "I agree," she said. The trader won and really, she should have. Gix hadn't killed Engelier, hadn't killed any of her crew, and had brought her profit and was doing so again. She remembered the way Severa Valin had spoken his name and knew that in many ways they were alike.

"I don't want any of your people to leave the area of your quarters without my expressed permission. I don't want any unnecessary and tragic incidents."

"Of course," Gix replied. "Anything else captain?"

"I think we have an understanding," she replied.

"I believe we do," he replied. He half turned to leave and then stopped. "Captain, do you remember what was said in the conversation you held with Severa?"

"Yes," she remembered clearly. She had pushed hard to the edge and had succeeded with that one. She remembered words regarding feelings, the burdens of necessity, and the primacy of loyalty to one's people.

"There is nothing but tragedy to be gained from our conflict. I have no desire to tear open this old wound."

The conflict had almost killed Engelier in his mother's womb. Almost. What revenge for that? What blood should be spilled on account of an incident that the mother emerged whole from and from which the child grew up strong? How many should die for an injury that had healed long ago? "I think that would be best," she replied.

Shrouded in robes, Jolan Gix walked down the halls of the Officio Inquisition. Privacy shrouds and void screens shielded the passers by from one another, creating clusters of anonymous supplicants. So in theory no one knew he was here but a select few.

That wasn't true, of course. There had been a leak somewhere, either from The Fool's Wager or some Inquisition functionary processing the compensation claim. Inquisitors and interrogators knew that Jolan Gix was on world with his tail between his legs. The once promising inquisitor, famous for his role in the arduous and daunting Adraxian Affair, had lost his ship. This topped off a series of months where he had lost a colleague, his force rod, his primary prey, and been hospitalized by an assassin. The murderous perpetrators behind the Mandrassi Harrowing continued to elude him and apparently continued to strike targets. Once Jolan Gix had seemed to be on the path to greatness. Now he seemed to be circling the drain.

Lord Carrell of the Ordo Hereticus admitted the younger man into his office. The elderly inquisitor was still vibrant and strong. He leaned back in his chair as Gix entered. There was a darkness around Jolan Gix, a palpable bleakness. Jolan bowed to his superior. "You gave instructions that I was to report to you immediately, my lord."

Carrell nodded. "It has been a rough few months, hasn't it?"

"Yes, although not without some successes."

"That is true Jolan, but not how it appears to others. Enemies escaping you, old friends slain, weapons given to you by your mentor taken as trophies. There are whispers about you Jolan, that you've lost your golden touch, and they are only going to get stronger with your ship wrecked and having to be rescued by rogue traders. If one looks at other participants in the Adraxian Affair, you're star is most definitely in eclipse."

Jolan would have loved to argue, but it was pointless. Carrell had already decided his fate. It was sealed before he had even stepped foot in this building. Pater Novum had covered himself with glory, Varian had engineered famous victories, and Jolan Gix had not. Successes were to be found, but of late even his victories seemed tainted. And, of course, the secret ones could not be counted. Jolan stood stiffly at attention. "What do you command?" he asked.

"There is a crusade taking place through the Segad Worlds. The forces of Walduv IV could use a combat hardened Inquisitor with experience behind his belt. A simple, straightforward assignment. A victory to get you back on track."

"I see," said Jolan and he did. A set assignment to one world that would lasts months or years. An assignment that one with Inquisition level access could discover and have plenty of time to alert his assassin and move said assassin to the world in time to take another shot at putting Jolan Gix into the grave. The heretic troops on world would be the least of his problems. "I will do my duty," Jolan answered.

"I know you will inquisitor. You are dismissed."

olan Gix reclined on the couch in his quarters and carefully read through the reports on the Segad Worlds. He and his retinue had secured berths on the Navy transport Diligence which was en route to to Walduv IV with three regiments of Imperial Guard troops in its holds. The quarters were in officer country, suites reserved for important passengers. They were spacious and comfortable without being luxurious, although Gix paid such details little attention.

The Segad Worlds had been a peripheral subsector with few worlds of any importance. The subsector had been named for the rogue trader who had charted them nearly five millenia ago and who had planted the first colonies of men upon them. The occasional Navy patrol and tithe ship was their only real contact with the rest of the Imperium, with the exception of the once-a-decade tour of a Black Ship. The worlds were mostly agricultural and possessed no great wealth and comparatively few people, so even the Ecclesiarchy had little interest in what happened there.

When communication and travel to the Segad Worlds had become hazardous because of a warp storm, the worlds and the Imperial Commanders had not been seriously inconvenienced. They were mostly self-reliant and developed industries to provide substitutes for the few products that used to travel their way by trade. On several worlds, minor deviations from the Imperial cult became stronger.

Over the space of three decades several Imperial Commanders, who had known little from the Imperium other than the demands for tithes and the harsh gaze of the Arbites, felt the last brakes on their powers erode and vanish. The priests were weaker. The Arbites aged and died and their numbers were not replenished. When the storm abated after thirty-nine years, they no longer felt like part of the Imperium.

It took two years for an expedition to resurvey the Segad Worlds began. The Dauntless class cruiser Sebastian Victorious was assigned the task. The ship vanished sometime in the early part of its survey. The increasing activity of ork raiders put the Segad Worlds on the back burner for another decade.

When the Navy finally got around to sending another expedition they sent the Gothic class cruiser Starhammer and the Dictator class cruiser Lord Juro . What they found were the system ships of the Star Guard that were enforcing the edicts of Protector Deraiden of Free Stars Confederation. After a hostile exchange of vox signals a vicious battle erupted and the Imperial cruisers crawled back towards Imperial Space.

Five years later a crusade was pronounced and two years after that it finally launched. It had been raging for two decades now, with the Imperium finally establishing a foothold on the industrialized world of Walduv IV. The enemy still held most of the planet and the Free Stars Confederation still possessed a formidable navy, but actual progress was being made.

He called up his orders on his data slate.

2.132.975. M41
To: Inquisitor Jolan Gix, Ordo Hereticus
From: Lord Inquisitor Ignasius Carrel, Master of Ordo Hereticus in Candalus Subsector.

You are hereby ordered to the world of Walduv IV where you will offer assistance to forces of the Imperium fighting to bring this heretic held world back into the embrace of the God Emperor of Mankind. While eliminating enemy psi-assets and heretic resisters in conquered territory will comprise a large part of your mission, it is essential that you also search for any sign of chaotic or xenos influence.

May the Emperor protect and watch over you.

Lord Ignasius Carell

In his own hand.

P. S. Don't overdo it. If you discover anything big, call in reinforcements. I don't have enough inquisitors that I can afford to lose any of them in foolish blazes of glory.

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It took seven weeks for the Diligence to cross the Immaterium and emerge at the fringes of the Walduv system. The warp currents were still unsettled in this region and the convoy was twice blown off course. It was a great relief to all aboard when they finally emerged into real space and were able to gaze upon the stark beauty of the empty void and distant stars.

Gix had used the time well. Every scrap of data on Walduv had been hunted down and every flimsy rumour had been extracted from the Diligence's crew. Strategies and tactics had been discussed and those who's command of Cryptia was uncertain had their proficiency advanced. D'eckor and Keys trained the others in what to do in a firefight, in case of ambush or misfortune. The assassin and the veteran did not relent until they were sure that even the meek and mild Iriza was an asset in a gun battle and that all of their charges could take care of themselves.

Jolan Gix spent much of the time in an unused cargo hold. He had salvaged his grimoires as well as Gard's technical manuals from his poor dead ship. He practiced demanding mental exercises designed to enhance his skill, concentration, and strength. On Walduv IV the lines were clear cut and already drawn. Many of his most familiar strategies would be useless. So be it. He was more than capable of digging the enemy out of his holes where he hid and putting him to the torch.

Not that Gix was worried about the heretics. They were the easy part. The odds were excellent the assassin would also know of Gix's assignment and if he wasn't already waiting for him on Walduv IV, would be there soon. An assassin with the backing of an Inquisitor, undoubtedly equipped with several different identities that would allow him to move easily through Imperial lines and have access to all sorts of information and locations. An assassin that had already almost killed him who would make the most of his next opportunity.

The cargo ship shuddered as its landing struts touched ferrocrete. Steam hissed from vents as hydraulics went to work and cargo bay doors groaned open and ramps were extended. All along the five kilometer long landing field Imperial ships were touching down and billowing clouds of steam rose into the air. Reinforcements had arrived.

Munitorium personnel conferred with staff officer's attaches and space port foremen regarding the off loading of supplies and munitions. Commissar cadets marched among the ships as the Imperial Guard began to disembark by platoon. There were almost two score transports present and the cadets clutched data slates with orders from above concerning the disposition of the arriving units. Soon they were shouting with captains and lieutenants, trying to make themselves heard over the din, who were in turn left puzzled and trying to figure out how in the Emperor's name they were going to get all their men and equipment to the proper place.

Commissar Shala Nofield stood rigidly at attention, doing her best to appear as nothing more than a marble statue adorned with a commissar's elaborate stormcoat. Her skin was only a few tones pinker than stark white and her frost-white hair was cut short enough that it was barely noticeable even without her cap. "Which transport was he supposed to be on?" she growled.

Lieutenant Mikal Camron consulted the data slate for a fourth, useless time. "Seven B commissar." Which they had checked. Twice. She was in a bad mood and Camron knew that doing anything to exacerbate her bad temper would be not help him make captain. He was a cheerful man who was as dark as the commissar was pale. Taking part in a victorious campaign was a great way to get on the promotions list and even better if one could be useful to one's superiors without a prolonged presence on the front line.

He scanned the crowds surging down ramps and marching to and fro for any sign of the inquisitor. He watched a company of infantry slowly give way to a column of Leman Russes. ****, if someone didn't start doing a better job of traffic control some poor bastards where going to get squished. He scanned the crowd. "Commissar!" he said pointing.

Nofield followed Camron's hand. The unmistakable profile of a figure wearing power armour was moving their way. A small crowd was travelling along with it as it moved behind a platoon and then under a ramp. When they emerged Nofield had a better look at them.

The armour was night black and embellished with gold inquisitional rosettes. A lanky, dark skinned, tech adept with mechadendrites and some kind of exotic weapon slung over his shoulder accompanied him. A huge soldier wearing carapace armour was by his side, an aquilla tattoo prominently displayed on his forehead. A small robed woman and tall, handsome golden skinned woman wearing utility coveralls completed the group.

Nofield couldn't help but keep staring at the woman. He dress was plain but there was something about her. Those matchless eyes and that perfect skin. Something . . . . . the commissar blinked for a moment and approached the inquisitor. Now was not the time for such thoughts. She saluted. "I am Commissar Shala Nofield. I have been assigned to assist you by order of General Garst Hivkel."

"Very good commissar," came the reply from the helmet vox. "These others?"

"A squad from the 127th Strellan Dragoons. Lieutenant Mikal Camron, Intelligence."

"You have done a good job of anticipating my needs," replied Jolan. He turned to Mikal. The officer was about the same size and build of the commissar, which was to say athletic looking and about average male height on most worlds. "Where is the commissar's file."

Mikal blinked and then tapped his data slate. "Here," he said handing it over.

"Inquisitor," she began. "Is there something . . . ." Her voice trailed off. Hethor D'eckor's hand was on his gun but, which she now recognized as a bolt pistol.

"I have reason to examine who and what you claim to be commissar. Such paranoia is unfortunate, but necessary in this case. If you intend to last in my service, you will need to practice it constantly."

"Your will, inquisitor."

Gix turned. "Gard?"

"Confirmed with my data inquisitor, all but the most recent entries which aren't present on my data base."

"As to be expected," replied Gix. "Alright commissar, present your men to me. Your vigilance will be essential to our survival. There is an assassin who will be on world shortly if he hasn't arrived already. He has access to considerable material and intelligence resources. His mission is to kill me. You are to proceed from the assumption that everything is compromised until proven otherwise. Am I understood?"

"Yes," she said. "Sir, if I may ask, how do you intend to function in such an environment."

"Watch and learn commissar. The assassin isn't the only one with resources and I will deploy mine to the fullest."

Superb writing Cynical Cat. I hope you will continue this tale. Some fine examples of intra-Inquisition 'politics'.

I concur with Decessor's statement. Excellent material here, with very insightful plots and intrigues in mind. I have thoroughly enjoyed reading your story. I wish the best upon you and your writing career, and look forward to seeing more of your work!

The troop transport rolled to a halt. Gix's retinue began to unbuckle themselves. A ranker from the Dragoons popped the hatch and the rest of the squad filed out. Nofield followed her men, her eyes unreadable behind flash goggles. Camron and D'eckor trailed her out. "Clear as far as I can tell," said Gard.

"Good enough," said Gix as he lumbered out of the transport. They were just west of the city core, in what used to the district inhabited by high officials, minor nobles, and senior officers in the so-called Free Stars Confederation. The building was less ugly than most, a slate grey box that was decorated with scroll work and the heraldry of some of the greater families. A wrought iron fence, concrete barrier pylons, and road blacks all acted to restrict access.

The men guarding the road blocks were armoured in mottled grey carapace plates marked with the aquila and a insignia of crossed sword and rifle over an orange sun. Laspistols were holstered at their belts, several of them were manning heavy bolter or missile launcher batteries, and all the infantry were armed with bolters. Extravagant armament for Imperial Guardsmen. "Who are they?" Gix asked.

"Jivannians," Camron replied. "They're hell on the line, but a lot of them have been pulled off the line to act as security. Their auspexes pick up most bombs before they get close and with their weapons and armour they chew guerrillas to pieces."

"I've heard of them," replied Jolan. Jivanne was a backwater system with poor warp access. Coms were often lost and warp travel time was often twice as long as even ordinary routes. Jivanne could have gone the same way as Segald, but about two millenia, under somewhat murky circumstances that indicated either Arbites or Inquisition approval, the Levian dynasty took over. Not content to rule an outback planet, they began an aggressive campaign of development and industrialization. Although Jivanne would never be a sector or subsector capital or match the production of a hive world, the Levians would not let that stop them. Its members could now be found in positions of authority among the adeptus and the military. The leading edge of this political campaign were the crack regiments of the Imperial Guard that Jivanne provided.

The Jivannians checked his rosette and then let him pass. They entered through the ceramite double doors and into the lobby. The interior was a stark contrast to the outside. Polished brass fixtures, warm yellow lighting, thick carpets, and bright white walls surrounded them. Lifts operated by chrome bodied servitors wearing satin gowns carried them to the penthouse.

Four servitors and half a dozen junior officers were operating cogitator and vox systems under the supervision of a tech priest. Two more Jevannians guarded the door. Several officers in uniforms bedecked with medals stood at the edge of the room, junior officers attending them like courtiers to a king.

General Garst Hivkel was shorter than Melina and plump. His navy blue uniform was embellished with scarlet piping and his chest with covered with medals. His face was smooth, untouched by wounds or age. He looked soft, until you saw his eyes. "Inquisitor Gix, I was not expecting you. Your request for troops to be sent to Golesh immediately lead us to believe you would be heading there."

"Which was my intention," Gix replied. There was a pause as he took off his helmet. "I have reason to believe an assassin has been sent hear to dispatch me. He has in the past had access to the Imperial data net and various access codes and identities, courtesy of his heretic co-conspirators. Misdirection will have to be a tool of mine until he is hunted down and dispatched."

"Unfortunate," said Hivkel blandly. "It sounds as if that will interfere with your duties."

"Not if I succeed. I will need a certain amount of cooperation from your people to put my plan into action."

"Of course, inquisitor. We are loyal servants of the Emperor and can use all the help we can get."

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Zacharus smiled blandly at the Jivannian at the check point. The soldier took his card and stuck it into his reader. It hummed for a moment, beeped, and spat out his card. Perfect. Smooth as glass. "Go on through," said the soldier. Zacharus nodded and drove past.

Gix had decided to play hard to get and hide his movements. There was only so much Gix could do in that regard. There were problems an inquisitor had to address eventually. Zacharus had two options. Either he could jump around trying to find Gix or he could set up near a place that Gix would eventually have to deal with.

Setting up ahead of time risked getting found by whatever sweeper team Gix set up or being noticed by the local troopers as being unusual. That was a problem, which was why Zacharus was bringing in his gear in first, disguised as a simple delivery. Gix would pop around from one guerrilla hot spot to psychic on the front line as he chose and Zacharus would probably miss him every time or not have enough time to set up. So instead he would wait, not on top of a site, but close to it. Far enough to be outside the radius of a sweep team, but close enough to notice when it came by. And then he would slide in, set up, pop the inquisitor, trigger the distraction, and slip out. Perfect. Easy.

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"This is your idea of counter terrorism, captain?" Gix asked.

"Yes, sir," the captain said puzzled. He was young, blond, and pale wearing a iridium glazed cuirass under his greatcoat. "It works. These people won't be hiding terrorists anymore."

Gix looked down into the pits. There were four of them and they were all filled with bodies, from babies to the elderly. Perhaps one hundred people per pit. "They won't be doing anything anymore. Including telling me about these terrorists or providing useful labour for the Imperium."

"Uhh, yes sir." The captain was clearly having trouble with the point.

"These people don't have any reason to love the so-called Free Stars Confederacy," Gix continued, "in fact it has gone out of its way to beat them down. It takes their sons for the army and their daughters to serve their high officials. It steals most of the fruits of their labour and leaves them the dregs. It houses them in buildings slightly better than shacks. If they are in contact with guerrillas, their secrets can be coaxed or torn out of them. If they are alive to tell them. Do you understand captain?"

"Uh, yes sir. Save some alive for interrogation. I understand inquisitor. My apologies. Uh, what now?"

"Burn the bodies and gather your things."

"Are we going somewhere?"

"You're going to the front line. I don't need clods like you making my job harder and you could use some seasoning under fire."

The man went paler. His jaw dropped and then he shut it, saluted, and turned around stiffly.

"Boss," said Hethor, "the way the Free Stars runs their people into the ground, they shouldn't have this kind of guerrilla support."

"I agree," replied Jolan. "They don't. They've left supply caches behind and sent in special units, whatever their designation happens to be."

"Why? They won't slow us or hurt us that bad. Got to be somethin' else," said Hethor.

"Yes, there's a missing piece to this puzzle, but I need more information. We need to start catching live heretics."

"Everything you asked for," said Gard Vikal. The table in front of him was covered in neat lines of devices ranging from the size of a fly to a human head. "The Mechanicus were not overly cooperative and not all of them were in our inventory. I had to have some of these manufactured from the plans in the data base."

Keys nodded. "But everything is here?"

"Yes," said the scholar. Several of his mechadendrites twitched. "I don't see what the use of all this gear is. My surveyors have superior performance."

"You don't see the need because you are a scholar and I am an assassin. These aren't going to be used with your surveyors. You're going to be with Gix, sending your toys ahead to sniff out bombs and ambushes. And I have full confidence in that you'll do your job well. I won't be there."

"I would think given your expertise in assassination that your presence would be invaluable," replied Gard.

"It is," said the assassin. "I know the problems he will have hunting. Gix is constantly on the move. There are a number of possible sites of interests he can set up at, but he doesn't know Gix will be there. Your auspexes make an on site ambush or booby trap likely to fail. So his best bet is to covertly monitor a probable location from afar and then move in and set up after Gix moves in."

"He has additional problems. He may have security clearances, but no one local to vouch for him that he is actually attached to a field police company or whatever ident papers he will be traveling under. That will get him detained and then dead if things go wrong at any checkpoint. That further narrows down his options."

"I see. You will be hunting him. That's what these are for." He gestured to one half of the table. "You'll be looking for his monitoring equipment. "

"Exactly," replied the assassin. "Killing with a gun, poison, or a blade is the last part of the assassin's skill set. It comes in at the end. The game and the hunt are where the real skill lies."

"I think the Eversor shrine disagrees with you."

"Callidus and Vindicare would agree with me," he said as he began to pack the instruments. "The first rule is that an assassin is measured by success or failure." He shrugged. "Brute strength and shock attack are valid tactics. All rules have their exceptions, as long as the kill is achieved."

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Mud fountained into the air, accompanied by a thundering roar. "Get me some counter battery fire!" Nathan Comstock screamed into the vox. "The vulking heretics are hammering the hell out us!" It was the third time he had called and each time he had eaten static.

"Captain!" Yelled a voice behind him. He turned to see the doughy face of Commissar Petrason. He seemed almost lost in his great coat. "Enemy armour is advancing!"

Vulk. He turned and looked. Something was coming out of the woods about two klicks away. He pulled up his field glasses and peered through them. Wolfhounds. At least a dozen and more coming out. A medium tank produced in endless numbers by the Free Stars Confederation. Protector Deraiden hadn't kept the design to himself. It was cropping up in other subsectors.

It was a relatively fast promethium fueled tank. They were armed with a turret mounted autocannon, coaxial heavy stubber, and a hull mounted stubber. Four man crew, autoloaders, moderately thick slopped composite armour, basic surveyors, and com equipment completed the package. Variants included grenade launchers and an all too common destroyer variant with a dual lascannons in the turret.

The armour boys worried about those destroyers, as the autocannon, despite the fact that the Wolfhound packed a hard hitting version, was capable of penetrating the front armour of a Leman Russ only at close range under optimal conditions. Too bad the tank boys weren't here to do something about it, because the standard model's autocannon and heavy stubber combination was a much better choice for chewing up his infantry.

The shallow trenches would give them some protection from enemy fire, but once those tanks punched through they were dead meat. More dirt fountained into the sky and he felt his bones vibrate. Manning the heavy weapons meant being more exposed to the enemy shells.

"Get on the guns!" he yelled. "Commissar!"

"Your will!" Petrason shouted back. Petrason began to rally the men. "For the love of the Emperor stand fast!" He brandished his laspistol. "I stand ready to absolve all weaklings of their sins!"

Then his vox operator was slapping him on the back. "Fire Central says volley en route!" Where in the Emperor's name had that come from and why had the static vanished? Never mind. Right now he wasn't too inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The lead tanks were closing fast, despite the somewhat uneven ground. A little more than a kilometer and a half away. Given the terrain, they would be here in two minutes, give or take. The heavy bark of an autocannon opened up on his left. Two missile contrails streaked from his right. One hit dirt. The other scored a a direct hit on the glacis plate. Fire blew from the hatches. The brilliant beam of a lascannon scored the mud.

Las beams flashed overhead, far too many to be his men. Missile contrails joined them. Three more enemy tanks were burning. He turned to Ventathian heavy weapons teams setting up in the woods behind him. They had a little cover at least, although the woods had taken a beating in the shelling. The Ventathian's heavy armour was at least good protection from shrapnel.

The shelling was slacking off. A lot. Either the counter battery fire was working or the enemy was trying to avoid shelling their own men or a combination of the two. More vehicles were still coming forward. Emperor take him, this was looking more and more like a big push.

He turned to his vox operator. "Can we still get through?"

"Yes!' he shouted back.

"Tell regiment it looks like a major push!" Richardson began working on it
A big bastard in carapace armour came toward him up the side of the trench. He was wrapped in a heat shimmer. It took Comstock a moment to recognize it. Force field. The man wasn't wearing any insignia. High up. Had to be.

"Tell your men to hold the line," he big man shouted. He wore a bolt pistol on his waste and had a hellgun at the ready. "Reinforcements are on their way. And be ready for witch work."

"Vulks?" he said using the local idiom of Cerosa. "They're bringing psykers?" he asked, switching out of slang.

"That's why coms have been raped," the man replied. "Steady your boys. We're on the job. He gestured out of the trenched as mud splattered him from an exploding autocannon shell. "They're about to get a taste of hell. The Inquisition is here and is taking charge."

"Gard, Iriza, stay back. Keep a line open. I'll need your auspexes and witchsight to get an over view of the battle. Feed me." Jolan didn't wait for a response and began heading through the last fringe of the trees. Two of Gard's orb drones trailed behind him. He surveyed the field of battle and consulted the data being dumped into his autosenses.

The Imperial lines were a quick and dirty trench system with some weapon emplacements at the edge of what had been a forest before it started getting shelled. The Free Stars had decided to make this, the trailing northern edge of the Imperial lines, the place to attack. A horde of armour was crossing no man's land and pouring fire into the trench lines. Some of the Imperials were shooting back.

The Ventathians he had snagged from the rear were setting up their heavy weapons teams. He hadn't had much time. His readings of the Emperor's Tarot had indicated something big was up, but it wasn't until the psychic jamming that he had known where. He had been able to trace it here and headed to reinforce with the only scratch force he could muster. More reinforcements were en route, but whether or not there would be anything left to reinforce when they arrived was an open question.

The Ventathians began to fire. Tanks were burning now, but only a few. The closest were half a klick from the trench lines where Hethor had gone to stiffen the defenderss spines. Jolan wasn't sure that had been a good idea, but it was done. Now it was time to draw out the sorcerers.

He focused his will on one of the lead tanks. The warp responded to him, eagerly. In his mind eye he could see dull red fire blossom inside the hull, searing the flesh of the crew where they sat. Hatches popped open and flame jetted out as the tank lost speed. Blackened arms tried to pull seared torsos out of the Warp made hell before the ammunition or the fuel went. Jolan was no longer paying attention. He was focusing his mind on the next tank.

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The lead tank took a direct hit from a lascannon. Molten metal and hot gas sprayed in both directions in an incandescent flash. "Keep it up!" Hethor roared. It was going to get really nasty soon. Why in the holy name of Him on Earth had he volunteered to go and do this rapin' job?

He slung his hellgun over his back. He liked it. A high powered, rapid firing archeotech model that hit like a max powered Tripex and fired faster the Necromundia carbine; but it wasn't an anti-tank weapon. He unslung the other weapon, another piece of archeotech. He didn't buy the triple the range bilge that Vonrilyental spouted off. He had tested it. Double the range was about right. He raised the melta to his shoulder.

The tank spearhead was getting ******* close now and behind them were the infantry carriers. The armour was beginning to take it in the teeth. A bunch of them were burning without being hit. Jolan. Nice having an Inquisitor provide fire support. Shells were beginning to fall around their rear elements. Even the arty boys played nice when an inquisitor was doin' the askin'.

Lead tank was close now. There was a buzz in Hethor's ear. He ignored it. It got louder. Some of the men were shaking there heads. Sorcery. He held steady. "Snap the **** out of it!" he yelled. They didn't pay attention. An autocannon shells blew one of them to pieces the two guys next to him were knocked to the trench floor.

"Get up and fight!" roared the commissar. There was the crack of a pistol shot and one of the shock cases dropped in the muck. "Fight for the Emperor!" the commissar roared. They staggered back to their positions like men in a dream.

What had been the lead tank was now coasting to a stop in the mud. A moment later there was a dull thud and then a whump as ammo cooked off. It's turret shot in the air. Hethor brought his melta to bear on the nearest tank. It was too **** close. Where in the Emperor's Name is our ******' armour? he though as he squeezed the trigger.

There was the briefest of pauses before an eye searing beam of intense heat struck the tank dead on. Superheated gas blasted away from the impact point, leaving a meter diameter hole and a raging inferno inside. Hethor aimed at another tanks when an explosion spilled him on to the trench floor.

He was dazed for a moment. The world was shaking and thunder was all around him. His limbs felt like jelly. Autocannon round must have hit right next to him. Refractor field must have deflected enough energy that he was merely stunned instead of killed. He shakily got to his feet. The buzzing was louder now. Half the men in the trench were trembling like leaves. The rest were fighting. The short, doughy commissar was gouging out his eyes with his bare hands. **** me with a chainsword , Hethor thought. He had received special conditioning and had blocks implanted to give him some resistance to witch work and he still felt it. It was whispering to him, despite the psi-blocker Gard had worked onto the back of his gorget. All that added up to is that the witch couldn't take him out with a blanket effect.

A tank was bearing down on him, maybe ten meters away. In his peripheral vision he could see infantry pouring from carriers, ready to storm the trenches. There was a lot of trashed armour on the fields, but a lot had made it through. The tank's hull mounted stubber fired on him. A round creased his jaw, one smacked into his visor, and another two struck his helmet full on. Hethor fell back into the mud as the tanks rolled forward and the Confed infantry stormed the trenches.

Hethor shook his head. It hurt. Their was buzzing in his ear and his cheek was wet, probably with his own blood. Didn't know how long he had been out. **** it. Got to get back on his feet. Limbs like lead. Get up and fight or die like a dog in the mud. He heaved up.

There was fighting all around him. Heretic armour was all over the trench and APCs were disgorging a ******* horde of troopers. Heavy weapons fire was still smashing into them from behind the trenches and there were still boys in the trenches fighting. About ten meters south of him was a promethium fueled blaze filling the trench. And there was a mother rapin' heretic Wolfhound about four ******' meters from him.

It was firing its turret guns into the trees at the Ventathians. The hull mounted stubber wasn't doing ****, probably jammed or damaged. Hethor raised his melta and fired. The blast of intense heat struck the bottom of the tank, in the vicinity of the driver's chair. Glowing gas blasted back as the fighting compartment filled with the breath of hell. Hethor ducked down. The tank exploded.

This was serious ****** up. He must be getting cocky otherwise he would have never have volunteered for this ****. Free Stars boys were moving through into the trenches and towards his own tender ass while the only really close pieces of heretic armour were burning. Hethor slung the melta and whipped out the assault las.

He unleashed a stream of bolts against three advancing troopers wearing light grey flak jackets. The high energy beams burned through armour and flash-boiled flesh. Goblets of flesh and bloody mist exploded from their chests. They dropped. Hethor shifted aim and gunned down two men exiting from an APC. Hethor was grinning like a maniac. This sweet thing hit almost as hard as a bolter. He picked off another pair of troopers near a burning tank.

No targets for a moment. Hethor ducked down and dropped the power packs out, switching two more high capacity models in. The ***** was dependable, but high maintenance. Standard Guard issue power packs wouldn't last long the way she drank down energy and only the best internal components would do. She was a long way away from being manufactured for anybody but Stormtroopers, but she was a sweet killing machine.

Fighting in the trench north of him. Hethor raised the las. It was connected to the targeting eyepieces in his helmet, but the bullets had knocked those off line until a tech adept or Gard placated the spirit. Not a problem. He would just have to do it the old fashion way.

It looked like a couple dozen Free Stars boys were swarming a half dozen or so loyalists. The Guardsmen were fighting hard, but numbers were against them. He gazed down the sights and fired single shots. Two grey boys toppled back.

The Guard wasn't going to last much longer. Hethor tossed two frag grenades towards the far end of the the melee, dropped the las, and pulled out the melta. Sorry boys, but you're already dead. The grenades went off with loud cracks. Men fell, screaming and bleeding. Bullets and las beams flew back. A few hit. The refractor field leeched away their power and they failed to do more than mar his armour.

Hethor fired, filling the trench with the wind of the inferno. And then he fired again and then again. The sides of the trench burst as mud became steam and scorched earth. Flesh became ash, plastic withered and metal ran like water. Only half visible through the shroud of steam, a twisted pile of blackened, twisted refuse remained where men had once fought. Dark shapes moved towards him. Las beams sliced trough the air and he could hear the chatter of autoguns. He dropped the empty melta and picked up the las.

He fired two long bursts into the fog. He tagged at least one Free Stars boy. Bullets zinged around him. Two las beams burned small holes in his breastplate. Time to bug the **** out. Going over the mother-rapin' top was a sh*tty idea, but at least he wasn't likely to get taken out by a stray stubber round.

He heard a loud roar above him and behind him. He had heard it once and it wasn't a sound one forgot. Big ass shotguns going full auto. Ripper guns. A woman's voice, strong and pitched to carry. "Ogryns! The Emperor wants you kill those heretics and protect that soldier!"

Eight Ogryns trampled past Hethor's trench, their ripper guns making a hellacious noise as they open poured fire into the northern part of the trench. Shala Nofield dropped down beside him. She was wearing a ceramite breastplate and her leather stormcoat over her flak armour, with a Necromundia pattern carbine in her hand, her pistol holstered by her side, and a chainsword scabbarded on her belt. A flash visor hid her eyes and her hair was tucked under her peaked death's head cap. "Get moving soldier. Reinforcements have arrived. Where's the enemy psykers?"

"Don't know," replied Hethor. "Didn't see the fuckers," he continued as he changed fuel canisters on the melta. "They hit the trench ******' hard. Lot of the boys lost it all of a sudden. How the **** didn't you get cut down going over the top like that?"

"Chimeras just a bit back. Only a short dash and the Orgryn's attracted the fire. Nice kit they've got. Ceramite plates over flak, armour piercing flechette's in the ripper guns. They didn't notice the enemy shooting them much. And Leman Russes have joined the party."

"Nice friends you brought. I take back half the things I've said about commissars. Where's the boss?"

"Gix? I don't know."

"Well, there's one way to help him."

"How?" she asked.

"Drop the hammer on the bad guys so hard we draw the psykers' attention."

The pale woman went even paler. "Emperor above."

"What's a matter commissar? Afraid of a little witch work?" Hethor laughed. "The stories I could tell you. Let's go kill some more heretics."

Two figures in heavy robes approached. "Inquisitor?" the tallest one said tentatively. Jolan turned slightly. He could sense the psychic pall the heretic psykers were throwing over the trenches. Somewhere in that psychic static where the originators of it. Right in the middle of battlefield hell.

The two sanctioned psykers fidgeted. "Can you shield yourselves from enemy fire?" he asked.

The taller one replied. "I can. Rigel can't."

"Shield both of you. Advance. Attack the miasma. Defend yourself against psychic counter attack. Take cover in the trenches."

The shorter man grew paler. They were much alike. Heavy robes with Imperial Guard and Schola Psykanna symbols on them over standard issue flak armour. Shaven heads, pale, watery eye. "Y-yes lord," said the taller.

"Wait ten seconds and then advance," said Jolan. He turned to the Ventathian squads around him. "Guard my flanks and cover me. Don't worry about the psykers. Kill every heretic in front of you." The soldiers nodded in acknowledgment. They had been through the meat grinder more than once and knew that they were going to lose friends and comrades. They were resigned to the coming fight and knew that their best hope lay in victory. "Let's go."

He started past the tree line. The Ventathians were pouring supporting fire into the line and the armour had finally arrived from the reserves. A half dozen Leman Russes were firing on the heretic armour. Imperials were still fighting back in the trenches. He shouldn't have let Hethor go into that muck.

Autocannon rounds burst around him as a Wolfhound raked his path of advance. Mud fountained around him and two rounds struck him in a brilliant flash of light. The Ventathians went to ground as autocannon and stubber rounds raked the area. The impacts merely caused Jolan to stagger backward, but his armour was merely scarred and not breached.

Fire came to his call, filling the the interior with of Wolfhound with crimson flames. Hatches popped open and flames jetted out as the crewmen struggled to leave the blazing steel coffin. Gix ignored the screams of the dying. His real prey was ahead. He signaled his picked squads to continue advancing.

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Hethor placed a long burst into the chest of the charging shock trooper. The carapace plate failed under the hellgun's barrage and he toppled. Nofield put a burst into another one and did nothing but chew up the armour. "Throne!" she screamed in frustration. Hethor blew out his legs with a burst and the trooper fell into the muck.

"Don't shoot them in the Emperor-damned breastplate! It'll take too **** long to chew through the ceramite!" In a lower tone of voice. "Dumb ass commissars. Figures that they wouldn't know **** about shooting the enemy." He mowed down another heretic trooper. "Jolan, get your ass over here now."

The ogryns were taking fire, but the big abhumans were shrugging it off. Their most vulnerable points were protected by armour plates and flak covered the rest. They just shrugged off minor injuries. The flechette bursts from their ripper guns tore apart heretic troopers.

One of the Wolfhounds swiveled its turret towards the ogryns and blew off his right arm and tore apart the right side of his chest with an autocannon volley. The abhuman collapsed. The turret moved another four degrees. An ogryn was decapitated.

"**** this," Hethor muttered. "Here," he said tossing the assault gun to Nofield. "This has some real killing power." He unslung the melta and drew down on the tank.

The battlefield was full of smoke and wrecked vehicles. It took a moment to zero in on the one targeting the ogryns. There. Twenty-odd meters away. Hethor pointed and fired.

A beam of white hot heat struck the tank. A cataclysmic explosion shot the turret into the air. "Burn and die." He drew his bolt pistol, blew apart the thigh of Free Stars trooper, and spun back towards the trench and the amputee fell screaming to the muck.

The ogryns were on their knees. Two were screaming and one was clawing out his eyes. Nofield was in a daze, as if she was trapped in a dream and was trying to fight her way out. "Well, they've got to be right on ******' top of us," Hethor said to no one in particular.

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Jolan walked into the miasma. He felt the pressure on his mind, trying to make him shut down. Capitulate. Sleep. Give up. He answered with a psychic blast that shifted the warp currents around him and tore apart the web of heretic sorcery.

He could see the sorcerer now. How badly the Free Stars were corrupted by chaos was an open question, but the denigration of the Imperial Cult, the naked ambition, power lust, and desperation that must be rampant in their society assuredly made them more vulnerable. The sorcerer had certainly succumbed.

The sorcerer and his retinue were walking past the burning remnant of a heretic tank. He was wrapped in rune-marked black robes. A conical helmet and battle-mask obscured his features. A gilded breastplate covered his chest. He was haloed by dancing runes of pink and cyan fire. Five acolytes in similar robes surrounded their master. They were armed with lasguns and were firing into the trenches, but the power they yielded to their master was of far greater import.

Jolan brought forth another firestorm. Tongues of scarlet flame swirled around the coven and were then snuffed out by a cold wind. The sorcerer's head turned towards him. Bolts of black fire shot out towards him.

Jolan countered with a warding gesture and the doom bolts shattered like glass on impact. Tear down his wards and strike at his mind Gix telepathically ordered the sanctioned psykers. It was probably a death sentence for them, but it wasn't like a lot of men weren't dying here.

He focused the power of the warp. One of the coven was consumed in a flare of green fire. A telekinetic blast pulped the rib cage of another acolyte and he fell. Las bolts came his way. The Ventathian's weapons seemed to bounce off an invisible wall.

The sorcerer retaliated with darts of golden flame. There was a crash of thunder as Gix swept them away. Sweat was beading on his brow. He was pushing his attacks through and parrying the other's strikes, but it was costing him dearly. He twisted his fist and extended his will. Another acolyte fell, his heart exploded within his chest.

The brilliant white flare of a melta beam blew another acolyte to ash. "Finish the job boss," came Hethor's voice in his ear. A withering blast of warp lightning arced toward him. He tried to deflect it. Failed. His conversion field emitted a blinding flash and his world shook. His head swam for a moment, but he was still on his feet.

A brilliant beam of blue-white flame shot from his hand and struck the sorcerer. It burned through his weakened wards and out through the back of his chest. The chaos sorcerer stood for a moment. Then his left hand dropped. Then his head. Then his whole body came apart as if it was made of child's blocks.

A soundless blast of pink and blue flame erupted from the sorcerer's body. Nearby tanks were flipped and the blackened bones of heretic troops were tossed to the winds. For a moment shocked peace reigned on the ghastly scene. Then Imperial troops were freed from their stupor and heretics began to recover from the shock.

"Reinforce and hold," ordered Gix over the command frequency. He was already targeting another tank. The heretics had shot their bolt. Time to finish them off.

Smoke rose from burning tanks. The enemy had abandoned the field, leaving much material behind. Ventathians were swarming over the vehicles, finishing the wounded and attaching recovery hooks to others. Those that could be resanctified into Imperial service by the Tech Priests would find their way into the arsenal of the Imperial Guard.

Jolan unlocked his helmet and immediately regretted it. The smell of burning promethium and scorched flesh assaulted his nostrils. He shook his head and looked around. The taller sanctioned psyker was still standing, his eyes glazed over. The other was sprawled limp on the ground. His witchsight told him that he was dead with a single glance. His soul was gone. Gix waved his hand in front of the living psyker's face. He blinked and turned toward him. "You with me?'

"Yes lord," the psyker responded.

"Good. Your name?'

"Batista Vonnil."

"You're with me now Batista. You understand?"

"Yes lord. I'm part of the Inquisition now."

"Correct." Motion at the corner of his eye attracted Jolan's attention. Hethor was helping Nofield up wrecked ladder out of the trench. A smile touched Jolan's lips. Hethor's usual impulse in these situations was a boot to the chest when the commissar reached the lip followed by half a power pack's worth of las bolts to the torso while the commissar lay sprawled. Not that he had actually done that. At least not more than once.

Hethor hauled Shala up and nodded to him. "I guess we won."

"That we did. Thanks for the assist."

"Well, if you're dead then who's goin' to set the tankers on fire?"

"Good point," replied Jolan smiling slightly more broadly. "How the melta work?"

"She's a sweet hurtin' machine," said Hethor with a smile. "Not quite as flash as she's claimed to be, but close enough. She can lay a hurtin' and has a range better than a spitball."

"Good. Commissar."

Nofield drew herself erect. "Sir."

"See to it that Batista here is transferred to ne. He'll be joining us. We're leaving, at least for a while."

"What about the prisoners?"

"We killed the interesting ones. The Guard can have the rest. If they encounter something unusual, I'm sure they'll let us know."

"Yes lord," Nofield responded. She began to talk on her vox. Jolan's attention shifted as he moved away from the trench. He had received a communique from Keys. It simply said "ready."

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The process of elimination had whittled down the target list. There were a few places that Jolan had to check out that were suitable for the assassin. Only a few avenues of approach, more than a few spots to hide. He had set up his monitoring equipment, as he had done the previous two times. Then he had sent in the bait.

It had worked beautifully. The astropaths had tripped the psi-detectors, which had then sent their little signals and that had shown up on his instruments. Several more auxpexes had been activated, but the assassin had not moved from his lair. Perfect. Now the hunt began in earnest.

Zacharus's eyes shot open. The loud beeping in his earphones indicated his psi detector had been tripped. He activated the pict screens. A psyker and a strong one at that. He activated the other auspexes. Three Chimeras were rolling through the deserted town. A wave of cyber skulls preceded them. He smiled.

It was as he predicted. Gix had shown up and his minions were checking the ground in front of him. The desecrated church demanded Inquisition attention and Gix would eventually have to show up and cleanse it. Imperial Guardsmen were disembarking and forming a rough perimeter. Anyone hiding in the ruins would have been spotted by the cyber skulls. But Zacharus wasn't there.

He raised the roof of his hiding spot and crawled up onto the ground. The underground bolt hole he had fashioned had allowed him to be nearby and yet invisible. He glided forward, his camouline sneak suit blending in to match the environment. The technosorcery talismans that were part of the suit would mean that a bioscanner could only detect him at close range.

Gix hadn't brought enough soldiers to form an effective perimeter out to a distance that would include Zacharus's destination. He had planned for that too. A large retinue would be slower and easier to find and that would give Zacharus other hunting options. Like tracking him down and killing him.

The assassin slipped into a gutted building at the edge of town. His auspexes were located elsewhere, in case they were found they wouldn't lead his enemies to his shooting location. He climbed the battered, filth smeared steps up to the fourth floor and headed to the north east corner.

The two windows provided a perfect view of the church and its approaches. Now came the next problem. How to kill an psyker-inquisitor travelling in an armoured vehicle who was protected by power armour and a conversion field while maintaining his distance Zacharus had considered and discarded a number of exotic weapons before settling on his chosen instrument.

He turned back to the adjacent room. The weapon had been too bulky to sneak around with, so he had hid it on site. He drew a power knife and begun slicing through the wall. He had stashed it and replastered the wall.

The chunk of wall fell away to reveal two black bags. Zacharus took the smaller, moved it to the corner room, and opened it. With the swift and smooth motions of long familiarity he assembled the tripod. He then went back for the other bag and pulled out a Javinne pattern infantry lascannon. He walked over to the tripod and set the cannon on its base and began to adjust the attachments.

A sound no louder than the paw fall of a feline caught his attention. He spun, his hand falling to the las pistol at his belt Too slow. There was a flash of violet-white light and Zacharus was a charred ruin from the waist up. His corpse toppled to the floor.

Danell Keys stepped around the room gingerly. Once he knew that this place was the spot, it had been all prep work. Gard's toys had allowed him to alter Zacharus's auspexes so they didn't record his presence. Then it was just sending in the sanctioned psyker in Gix's armour to trigger the trap and using his own bioscanners to track the assassin when he showed his head. There were only a few places he could go and they were all covered. Then it had simply been a matter of quietly walking up and shooting him.

He took down the lascannon. He activated his vox and spoke in Cryptia. "Knife seeking Infernas. The Archer the way of all flesh."

"Infernas, the heart soaring. Knife covered in glory."

"Knife sheathed, its purpose fulfilled."

Mikal Camron stuck his head through door and into the planning room. "I have the latest reports."

Jolan Gix looked up from the table. The inquisitor was no longer wearing powered armour everywhere he went. The harness for his conversion field that he wore over his armoured bodyglove was concealed under his storm coat. He, Hethor D'eckor, and Danell Keys were standing over a cluster of maps and photographs marked with circles and cryptic runic notation. "Come in Lieutenant."

The young man stepped in. He held a rather large folder under his arm. He extended it to Gix. "The latest reports," he said slightly sheepishly.

"Thank you," said Gix as he accepted them. "Your opinions lieutenant?"

"It's nice to sleep in the same bed twice in a row. Really nice that its a bed, not a cot."

"That it is," said Jolan amiably, "but that wasn't what I was asking."

"Sorry sir. I think they're going to ground. They know they are being hunted, they know their people are being caught and broken, and they know our offensive is driving them back. Fewer reinforcements and fewer supplies are getting through. They're boned sir, and being cowardly heretics, they're keeping their heads down and trying to survive."

"Hethor?" Gix asked calmly.

"Grox ****. These men aren't cowards. I killed enough of them to know. The enemy isn't as tough as us, but they have balls and their specials are their best. No, they're bein' practical. Bad odds. They're waitin' 'til it gets better."

"So, essentially you concur with our young lieutenant, except with regards to the quality of the opposition."

"Yeah, I guess so," the big veteran rumbled.

"Lieutenant, you're familiar with all the relevant material. Imagine you had all the authority of an inquisitor at your disposal. Come up with a plan to flush out or track down the last of these 'special' units. Deliver it to me when you are done. Sooner is better than later."

"Yes sir!" Mikal saluted and left.

Hethor snorted. "That boy needs some seasoning."

"I know. Guess who gets to lead his men into battle."

Hethor smiled. "Slick."

"Everyone who decides when to send a soldier into a meat grinder should have some idea of what its like. And we should make an effort to trim the terminally stupid out of the staff ranks before they get too many good Guardsmen killed."

Nofield entered the room. "Sir. Another inquisitor has arrived."

Jolan's gaze shot up. "Who?"

"Inquisitor Maladar."

"Huge bastard, powered armour, scar collection, no manners?"

"Uh, yes sir. He's got a platoon worth of Inquisitorial troops with him and a bunch of combat servitors. He wants this area cleared. Private Inquisition business."

"Obey," was Gix's reply. "And send him in. Then leave."

"Yes sir." She saluted and left.

"Boss?"

"You better go Hethor."

"Alright." The big man left. It was not long before Jolan heard the heavy steps of a man in powered armour. Maladar walked through the door. The huge inquisitor hadn't changed much. Gold stitches held his nightmarishly scarred flesh to his skull. Digital weapons studded the fingers of his ebony armour and a bolt pistol was strapped at his side. No melee weapon was visible, but Jolan noted grooves in his gauntlets. Retractable lightning claws.

"Maladar," he said as he inclined his head. "I wasn't expecting you. I'm afraid you've arrived a little late. I'm mostly wrapping things up here."

"The assassin?" the big man asked..

"Dead."

"I shouldn't be surprised. There have been developments." There was something in his voice Jolan couldn't place. Maybe if he spent more time with Maladar, he would have been able to place it."

"The situation has changed."

Gix's eyes narrowed as he processed the tone of his voice and his choice of words. This was bad. Very bad. "How?" he asked. He could sense a cloud of violence hovering over them like a storm. Nothing short of an Astartes with similar armament had much of a chance against Maladar hand to hand. Certainly not Jolan Gix. Maladar's reaction speed was **** fast, his weapons and armour superior. And psychically, well the gap had narrowed if Jolan's guess was correct, but that still left Maladar with the edge.

"Nevan has been sent to the outer reaches. Corell is dead. As is Gaskar. Trakus has been promoted. And Venderyl has a whole pack of tough young proteges. And then there is you."

"The balance has shifted," said Gix. "Drastically or you wouldn't be here. Trakus must be really shafting our side."

"Venderyl's lot is worse. Medricore is proving to be practically unkillable. Nothing seems to do more than slow him down."

Realization dawned on Gix. "You're here to cut your loses."

"Yes. A number of our supporters were reluctant to make the big step. And now we are losing. They're eager to jump ship. So we've lost."

"And now the breach has to be healed. They win. But it needs to be settled."

"I knew you would understand."

"To bury the conflict, the instigator has to go. Which means me. And it has to be my side that does it, as a peace offering to bind the broken fabric back together and as a gesture of sincerity. So they sent you, for reasons that are obvious."

"Yes. I want you to know Jolan, that even though I underestimated you at first, you have my respect. You would have made a worthy Lord Inquisitor and Master of Our Order." Maladar's hand drifted down to the butt of his bolt pistol. Probably loaded with psykout rounds. Maladar had done an excellent job of stacking the deck in his favor, arriving with surprise, and controlling the scene. Well, Gix had helped teach him that particular trick.

He was trapped in a room with the deadliest man he had ever met. One who had decided to kill him and could outfight him in any mode of combat he tried to employ. "Do you have a message for Kyra or anyone else before I kill you?" Maladar asked.

An icy calm descended on Jolan. He looked up. "Why this way?"

"What?" responded Maladar.

"Why did you choose to come here and kill me face to face?"

The inquisitor drew his bolt pistol. "Because as unlikable as I am, I like you Gix. You deserved better."

"You said you respect me. You know how tricky I can be, how capable my agents are. Even with things arranged the way you have done, you're still taking a risk. You can kill me and still not walk out of here. Coming here is a bad risk. Unnecessary. You may have orders to kill me, but you don't want me dead."

"That's true," said Maladar as he raised the pistol.

"You want me to tell you the others are wrong. That I have secret plans in the works that will turn things around, a winning card up my sleeve, loaded dice in play. You came here to confront me, not kill me. You want me to talk you out of it."

"Yes."

"I do have a compelling reason for you not to shoot me, but I don't have a plan," replied Jolan, "yet. But I can come up with one."

"I don't doubt it. Something involving an inferno pistol or plasma gun."

"You still haven't pulled the trigger."

"You said you have a reason that I shouldn't."

"We aren't boys being herded onto the Black Ships like cattle any more. We aren't students labouring under the watchful eyes of our teachers. We aren't interrogators trying to prove ourselves to our masters. We are inquisitors Maladar. Our destiny maybe influenced by our past and by the actions of others, but we have the knowledge and power to choose our fate. If we have the will."

"Are you calling me weak Gix?" Maladar snarled.

"Why are you doing what you don't want to do? You are Maladar. I have struck down a daemon prince and sent him shrieking into the warp. I have burned the bodies and souls of witches and daemons and my power is less than yours. Who can stand against you Maladar? Not even Jolan Gix. You crush your enemies and trample their bones into the dust. And yet your are meekly coming to the peace table and being compelled to do what you do not wish? Are they really that powerful?"

The gun wavered. "Are they powerful enough to stand against Jolan Gix and Maladar together when they have the advantage of surprise? What do you want Maladar?"

"I . . . . I want . . ."

"Prince. Slave. Imperial servant. You don't even know what you need, although every bone in your body yearns for it. You want power, but that hasn't given you what you want. You destroy those who stand against you and it merely slakes your thirst. You want to serve on your own terms. You want the choice. No longer to be the agent of the Inquisition, sent to kill here or investigate there, but a full Inquisitor in fact as well as title. To be like me. To shape the future as you see fit. To be not the servant of the Imperium, but to escape the cage and be your own man. To make your own choices and shape your own destiny."

Maladar's eyes blazed. He lowered the gun. "I said that one day you would make a great Master of the Ordo, if you lived. Everyone else, maybe not Kyra, said you were too soft."

Jolan smiled. "Everyone but Kyra saw you as her, or the Ordo's, attack dog. I always knew that the chain of duty would one day snap and you would do as you see fit as opposed to what you were ordered. On Scyrax I may have held violence in reserve, but I appealed first to your reason." He picked up a bottle of brandy. "I'm glad it was today as opposed to tomorrow. Shall we drink to being underestimated and to the victory of Kyran Neven's favored students?"

Maladar nodded. Gix poured to glasses. "A beast and a weakling is what we have been called behind our backs. The think poorly of us and of our mentor. We shall illuminate the truth for them a moment before their deaths."

"That's worth drinking to," replied Maladar and downed the glass in a single gulp. "Pour me another. I'll go cool out our boys. Would hate for someone to get shot now." He smiled at Jolan. It was a terrible thing to behold. Jolan smiled back. They were much the same.

The cutter coasted over to the Inquisition ship, Blinding Light . A huge door on the great ship's flank slid open, a power field acting to confine the atmosphere. The cutter coasted in, thrusters firing to make minute course corrections as the ship drifted into the cavernous landing bay.

The doors ground close as the slim and angular cutter set down on stubby legs. Steam hissed as the ship settled and its ramp was extended. An honour guard of faceless troopers wearing Inquisition black waited silently. Eventually, the door opened and men descended from the cutter.

Two men lead the delegation. They wore black cloaks over masked helmets and mesh armour. Hellguns were slung over their backs and carapace armour protected their chests. Behind them came Maladar, clad in power armour but without his helmet. The Inquisition troopers did not so much as flinch upon seeing his gruesome visage. Behind him came his trophy.

Four more cloaked soldiers walked alongside a three meter long casket. Humming suspensor modules kept the container hovering at waist level to the soldiers who were pushing it forward. A man in a white robe with the insignia of the Inquisition emblazoned in gold upon it stood at the front of the soldiers. "Inquisitor Maladar, I bring you the greetings of my master, Inquisitor Venderyl."

"I care nothing for his greetings. Where is he? Let's get this business over with."

"Is that . . . the remains-"

"Yes. Venderyl. Now. Or he'll be down one interrogator."

"Yes, my lord. Please follow me." The robed man turned and walked down a gap between the blocks of soldiers that lead to an corridor. "My master assumed that you might want to rest after your journey."

"If you master assumed that I would kill Jolan Gix, he is correct. If he assumed I would desire to spend one unnecessary moment in his presence, he's a fool." The rest of the journey was spent in silence.

The interrogator finally stopped at a door. "Your soldiers will have to relinquish their arms here."

"No. I'm on Fisk's bloody ship. He's got an army. My insurance is if things go wrong is that I have the chance to take him with me."

"Let me consult with my master."

"Go. Worm."

The interrogator stepped through the door. A minute passed. Then another. Then the door slid open again. "My master bids you and your servants welcome."

The interrogator lead Maladar into a gallery, one wall of which was lined with massive transplast windows. Armoured men shrouded in heavy robes were at each corner of the room. Each of the three doors had a pair of Inquisitional troopers armed with shotcannons standing guard. Maladar walked towards the table.

Inquisitor Venderyl sat at one side. He was a lanky, blond man armoured in gilded ceramite plate. His disciples attended him. One was a tall, pale woman with short, dark hair. Another was a dark skinned, red bearded giant; slightly smaller than Maladar. The third man of ordinary height and build reclining with his feet on the table. On the opposite side a silvery haired man whose face was crisscrossed with faint scars sat next to a heavily built woman. Both wore black mesh armour.

Sitting at the head of the table was Randor Fisk. His brown skin was leather and scarred, his hair and beard iron-grey. His left eye was augmentic. A burgundy robe shrouded his body. "Maladar."

Maladar shook his head. "Four untouchables? Four untouchables in one room?" He spat on the floor.

Fisk made no move. "You psychic abilities are formidable. You might be able to burn down an untouchable or even two of them in a lightning attack. Four? No. And relieving you of your weapons wasn't going to happen. This way we can be assured that you will be . . . . . manageable."

"Gix thought I was manageable and he is dead."

"Is he?"

"Skeptical?"

"Jolan Gix had survived situations that should have killed him before. I will believe it when I see him dead with my own eyes."

"That's why I brought the body." He gestured the casket forward.

The red bearded man got up and approached the casket. "Stasis field."

"Yes." The man touched a rune on the side, deactivating the stasis field and then another. The face of the casket slid open. "There's no face."

"That's because I blew the front part of his head apart with a psyk out rounds. Do you think he was easy to kill?"

"No," said Fisk. "Ydranko, take a gene sample." The bearded interrogator removed a device from his belt and pressed it to the flesh of the corpse.

"Done." He walked back to the table and pressed the metal cylinder against it. "Ironic. The archeotech Gix supplied us with now confirms his death. Match."

Venderyl smiled. "So much for the late, formerly great, Jolan Gix."

"He was worth two of you," Maladar sneered. "Even dead he's worth two of you."

"A soft spot," Venderyl said smiling. "Your reputation doesn't suggest that you have those."

"My reputation is that I respect drive and intelligence. Gix had those in abundance."

"Yes," said Fisk, "he did. Too much. He accomplished great things but he wanted to go too far, too fast and so he had to be put down for the good of the Imperium. And now let us close this sad chapter in the history of our secret fellowship. Our war is over, our path is set. Let us rejoice in that it is over and mourn the dead who all sought to serve the Emperor in the best way they knew how."

"You'll forgive me if I don't stay around and socialize," Maladar said.

"Of course," replied Fisk. The inquisitor turned away from his former comrades and toward the door through which he had entered.

Maladar stopped just before the door and turned. "Yes?" said Fisk in a bored voice. Then he caught it. The fluttering capes on two of Maladar's armsmen as they drew pistols, several of the others closing on the door guards. Fisk began to lunge out of his chair, hand snaking toward the activation control on his refractor field.

The first gunman raised an inferno pistol and fired at the Untouchable closest to him. The blast from the gun was almost blinding as the pariah was reduced to char. On the other side of Maladar another gunman had raised a plasma pistol and fired. An eye-searing violet beam incinerated the Untouchable's chest. Maladar's side of the room was no longer under the blanket of psi suppression.

The digital weapons on Maladar's gloves fired. The white robed interrogator took las beams in the face and chest. He toppled. Four of Maladar's armsmen had rushed the two door guards with mono edged blades. Blood spurted over the deck as they drove their blades through armour and flesh. The two remaining armsmen were drawing their hellguns.

Grenades flew from the cloak of the inferno pistolier, bouncing on the table and near the feet of the guards by the side door as they were unlimbering their shotcannons. He brought the pistol in his other hand to bear on the Untouchable across the room from him. The other gunman's plasma weapon emitted a violet beam and blasted through a pariah's armour, incinerating flesh and bone.

The inferno wielder fired the las in his other hand at the heavily built woman. He hit her in the shoulder and burned a hole in the chair as she dived under the table for cover. The other inquisitors and interrogators were also scrambling for cover as Maladar raked the table with digital lasers. They were short ranged and only had a few shots, but they were more than adequate to this task. Their armour saved them from the worst effects of Maladar's weapons. Then the grenades went off.

Clouds of flesh searing plasma cut the room in two. The two guards barely had time to scream as the plasma cooked their flesh. The blade work had finished. Maladar's armsmen had their hellguns out and raked the room with las busts as the fiery clouds dissipated.

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In the docking bay of the Blinding Light , a soft shimmer enshrouded Maladar's cutter. Panels slid open as a pop up turret slid out the top another sprouted on either side. An internal security turret mounted on the ceiling opened up with dual autocannons. Explosions erupted along the edge of the power field.

The cutter's top turret was armed with a missile rack. Smoke and fire streaked from it and the hanger gun exploded in blossom of fire. The other two turrets were armed with triple barreled autocannon clusters. They began to rake the assembled soldiers. Blood and body parts were strewn about as they filled the hanger bay with thunderous detonations.

"Keep at it," Hethor ordered the pilot. "Kill them all." He didn't wait for an acknowledgment and exited the cockpit.

"Ready sir," Nofield saluted. She and Camron stood at the head of a sixteen man strike team that had assembled near the ramp. Six combat servitors stood with them. They were wearing the same gear as their comrades on Maladar's detail, minus the cloaks. Nofield had retained her commissar's coat.

"Take the enginarium and the genatorium," Hethor repeated as if they hadn't discussed this a dozen times. "No mercy."

"Yes sir."

He touched his vox. "Status of the bay?"

"Just the dead and the dying," the pilot responded.

"Right. Move out."

Nofield lead her troops out into the bay. The nightmarish servitors clanked alongside them, armoured goliaths bearing heavy weapons and devoid of fear or restraint. The Blinding Light wasn't an Imperial Cruiser, but its crew was too **** big for even Nofield's team to kill them all, even with Gix's help.

"Okay Gard, crack open the case."

The scientist grimaced in distaste.

"Do it."

Gard sent a signal from his mechadendrites to the stasis box. The stasis field died and the lid slid open. The roof of Hethor's mouth went dry. He really didn't like this.

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The plasma storm dissipated leaving half of the table glowing red hot and the chairs a ruin. The heavily built woman hadn't escape the plasma blast and the mesh hadn't saved her. She was a scorched ruin. The others had managed to survive. Fisk was no where to be seen.

One of the guards was dead, riddled by hellgun blasts. The other was crouched down by the table and firing. Unfortunately, shotcannons were not excellent weapons against well armoured targets on the other side of a gallery. One of Maladar's men staggered under the force of the impacts. Two others gunned Fisk's armsman down.

Keys raised his plasma pistol and fired at the pariah crouched in the corner. The beam reduced him to ash and blacked bone fragments mixed liberally with slag that used to be his armour. Maladar laughed, loud and mocking. With a gesture, the table lifted and was thrust aside. A potent psychic shield surrounded the psyker.

Hellguns blazed. Gix added a blast of his inferno pistol at the bearded giant and a blast of green warp fire that swept over the survivors. When it cleared only Venderyl and the silver haired man in mesh remained. They rose, a nimbus of power surrounding them.

Maladar struck. Lightning flashed from his hands, lashing at them. They exerted their wills and dissipated his attack. Hellgun bolts struck them and did nothing. The inquisitors unleashed their own strikes.

A terrible psychic weight seemed to fill the room, clouding the mind, sapping the will. Maladar's armsmen dropped their weapons and clutched their head moaning. At the same time, a terrible spike of mental energy was aimed at Jolan Gix.

Gix deflected the attack. He was far more puissant in psychic combat than they realized. Tendrils of energy appeared in the warp and lashed out at both psykers, drawing their power away from them and into Jolan Gix.

Maladar retaliated with a blast wave of telekinetic force. Both psykers kept their feet as they struggled against his powers. Inquisitor Vetch, the silver haired man, sliced apart Gix's syphons with razor edged warp fragments. Venderyl hit Maladar with a telekinetic hammer blow. Enough force got through to stagger to bigger man.

Gix raised his hand and unleashed his stolen energy and then some. A bolt of absolute darkness struck Vetch and consumed him in a blast of tainted warp energy. Smoke and ash were all that remained. Venderyl's eyes went wide. His concentration slipped. Maladar punched through his defences.

The inquisitor spasmed and blood poured out his gaping mouth as Maladar crushed his heart. He fell to the deck and his flesh began to burn instantly from contact with the hot metal. Maladar smiled. "So much for their precautions." He looked around. "Where's Fisk?"

"Probably through that door," Gix replied.

"Our people are on the move. How confident are you in your surprise?"

"You saw them yourself."

"I don't like it."

"You? Squeamish?"

"I agreed to it. Let's finish the job."