Author's Note: I did not invent the Warhammer 40,000 universe, nor many of the concepts contained within. All elements of Warhammer 40,000 beyond the characters and explicit setting of this story (the Hive Bosporus and a few mentioned planets) are the creation of Games Workshop.
This first part is setting up the romance and adventure - the second part will have the...climax. So to speak. Enjoy!
The musty interior of the shop was rich with the scent of incense, stuffed fetishes, unwashed carpets, and fear. The two men who had stayed -- loyal Veltran and cynical, jaded Kungus -- both of them leaned against the door that lead to the narrow, empty sluice-streets that made up this part of the hab. Acid rain dripped down the sluices, burbling and
glugging
softly as it moved along the center of the street, a dull phosphorescence shimmering from the liquid trail. Ages ago, a fungus had evolved to take advantage of the industrial pollutants that made most of the world uninhabitable and now, that fungus cast its light on the two loyal men and showed their fear to the world.
"You can still go," the robed figure that sat at the table spoke, her voice a soft whisper. She was carefully shuffling the crys-cards of the Emperor's Tarot -- her alabaster pale fingers rubbed along the edges of the cards as she settled them. "There is still time."
Kungus glanced at her. "We knew this was coming, ma'am," he said, his voice still low and broad -- the accent of an offworlder, so different from Vel's snappier tones. "We're not leaving you."
Such an odd thing to hear from the man who, long ago, had confessed that he believed in very little.
The robed woman's breath caught.
A dark shape darted past one of the windows. In a flash of muscle, sinew and blood, Vel was ripped into pieces. Viscera splattered the walls and ceilings as his mangled corpse was yanked through the window. Kungus -- reacting with the grim determination that he had born his entire life -- sprang backwards and brought his autogun to bear. The barrel was contained by a sleek silencer -- a necessity in the close in knife-fights that dominated the lower levels of the spire. Even so, the noise was horrifying: The rattle of shell casings, the ferocious cat-hiss of the gun itself, and the splattering sounds of the bullets thudding into-
-
through-
The being that stood outside of the chamber. Acid splashed across Kungus' face. He screeched, lifting one hand -- far too late. Then a bone-claw slashed down. His hand hit the floor and his head joined it a moment later, disfigured beyond recognition. The whole moment had taken less than fifteen seconds -- and not a single droplet of blood or gore had even reached the robed figure's table. The dark form flowed through the window like water and carefully knelt down. It spread outwards, and when it stood back to its full three meter height, the two corpses were gone.
The sound of crunching bones were almost as loud as boots -- aristocratic, solidly built boots -- crunching through shattered glass.
The door to the shop opened and a tall, slender man entered. His face was narrow and angular and dominated by a hooked nose. His eyes were pale brown, watery. In another man, they might have seemed weak and indecisive. But this man bore himself with an age far greater than the one score and five that he seemed to have -- his eyes were pitiless. Ancient. He was dressed in a sleek uniform that seemed almost naval, though there was none of the Imperial blue and gold, no sign of an Imperial aquilla. Instead, he bore the noble symbol of a star-bust surrounding a single talon. Strapped across his chest was a long barreled, gold and silver solid projectile weapon with a rotating cylinder at the base to hold the ammunition. If it were not for the way it practically tugged away from his chest -- the hint that it contained some kind of counter-gravitic culverin system -- it would have seemed as ancient and primitive as the fetish the man casually batted away from his head.
"I don't suppose you're open for business
now
?" he asked, his voice dry.
The robed figure didn't move. Didn't even breathe.
The man snapped his fingers and a short woman entered the chamber behind him. She was golden-brown skinned, with a white nimbus of hair that exploded around her head. Her eyes were as empty as the space between stars, and she had a large aquilla tattooed on her forehead, as well as several dozen induction-augmetics that peeked out of her forehead like tiny pebbles embedded into flesh. Her lips were painted a pure black, and she knelt down -- her frilly skirts and corset creaking with the motion -- to pick up the chair that had been knocked over in the fighting. She set it up and dusted the cushion off with a single aristocratic hand.
The man took the seat and clasped his hands before him.
"My question," the man said, casually. "Is why you didn't hire more guards. If you are such a great seer...why not demand more men? Change the situation?"
The robed woman didn't respond.
The man frowned. His palm slammed into the table-top. The tarot deck bounced slightly, and several cards slipped off, spreading out in a confusion.
"Speak!"
The robed woman didn't respond.
The man pulled his revolver. It hummed as he held it out -- the tip of it catching the hem of her hood. He twitched the barrel and tossed it back, to reveal
beauty
. Her face was ageless as his -- but where he had become cold and distant, hers was filled with a vitality and life that made the whole room seem to glow, even with the towering darkness in the corner and the dead-eyed woman flanking the man. Her hair was a luminous red, spilling around her shoulders, accentuating her pale flesh. The man used the barrel of his pistol to push some of her locks aside, revealing the pointed tip of her ear.
"So it is true," he said, quietly. His voice held the detached curiosity of a collector of insects eying a new specimen. "And here, I thought all the tales of a
half
-eldar were naught but fanciful tales. Stricken from the cannon." He set the revolver down on the table. "Do you know who I am, abomination?"
The robed woman spoke: "Yes."
"Good," he said. "And you know why I am here?"
Again, she spoke -- again, it was that single word: "Yes."
"And yet, still, you refused me. Why?" the man frowned. "I offered thrones."
The woman opened her mouth -- then considered her words. Then, quietly, she said: "You would not believe it if you had not purchased it so dearly."
"This did not cost me overly much," the man said, dryly. "The Adeptus Arbites won't even investigate -- even the
local
enforcers won't care if you end up face down in the acid-vanes."
"True," the woman said. "But a man will forever remember what he has killed to receive." Her fingers darted out. She flipped the first of the cards that had been knocked aside, revealing it. "You come seeking a way to end a great dynasty." A leering skull peered up from the card as the seer's eyes became a pale white, their normal hues fading away. And as they faded, the man realized he couldn't
remember
what her eyes had looked like before. An eternity looked from that warm, beautiful, abominable face.
"
If you choose the weak willed minister, know that the Hall's star will fall from high,"
she said, her voice echoing -- and intensely male. The tone was unmistakable, layered over and through her normal tones. "
If you turn their gaze from the lowest place, then the Hall's star will struggle towards the Eater of the Dead and will fall yet again. And finally, if you seek his death, then your granddaughter will control every world in the Hall dynasty."
Her eyes closed and she shuddered as she flipped another card -- revealing the glimmering golden light of the Throne card.
The man breathed slowly out.
"Thank you," he said, softly. "You were right."
"I-"
The man picked up his revolver and fired it through the seer's head.
###
Jornan Hall, Trader-Elect and third child of the illustrious Ruben Hall and the Princess Contessa LaFlur-Devont.21, was sound asleep. This would normally not be an issue for the young Trader-Elect, save that he was in the middle of class. His professor stepped over, picked up the large tome of the
Agis Imperialis Dominica,
held it over his head...and then thought better of it. Instead, she dropped it beside Jornan's head with an all mighty crash. Jornan jerked up, his cheek moist with drool, blinked and flailed.
"What, no, bolters don't work that way," he said, muzzily.
Governess Maribel of the Order of the Flaming Rose pursed her lips as she looked down at her ward. "Master Hall."
"What?" Jornan rubbed at his cheek. He blinked and rubbed his cheek again. "What is this, sweat?"
"Drool," Maribel said, her voice dry as the tomes that she forced him to read.
"I do
not
drool," Jornan said, his voice haughty. He leaned back in his seat and sat up ever so slightly.
"The pict-captors may disagree with that assessment," Maribel said, picking up her tome. She tucked it under her shoulder and turned to walk away. Jornan watched her and sighed quietly. It was true that the Adeptus Sororitas -- the militant arm of the Ecclesiarchy and home to the Sisters of Battle -- did not require that their members swear celibacy oaths. But considering the number of times that Maribel had lectured him on eugenics and proper discipline becoming of young noblemen, he highly doubted that he'd ever see anything beneath the immense set of golden and black gowns that she wore -- layered like a cake, and just as decorative.
Maribel stopped by the wall of the tutoring room, slotting the tome in place. "As genealogy is
boring
young Master, I suggest we change topics." She turned back to face him. "I believe a test is in order."
Jornan gulped.
Tests were a favorite trick of Maribel to punish him for sleeping. Technically, as a Trader-Elect and future captain of five kilometers of starship, Jornan was exempt from most punishments that were meted out to the nobility of the Imperium by the Ordos Famulosa for minor infractions. However, no Imperial Noble house -- planet bound or star fairing -- would
ever
allow their child to go without punishment for the only cardinal sin that really mattered in the highest reaches of Imperial society.
Failure.
"Best tactics to use when an Orkish waagh attacks a client world," Maribel said, her voice cracking like a whip. Jornan gulped again.
