Astorath: Angel Of Mercy by Guy Haley

Author:Guy Haley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2022-01-17T08:38:23+00:00

PART TWO

THE MARSHES OF DULCIS

CHAPTER NINE

DESCENT OF ANGELS

Astorath, Dolomen and Bedevoir rode down from the Joyous Garde in a Red Wings gunship. Astorath ordered a true-pict hololith projected into the transport cabin while they flew. A round, muddy ball filled the aisle between the seats, so wet a planet its image wept rain at them.

Marsh covered most of Dulcis, grey tracts of grass broken by murky meres that attained beauty only at each day’s end, silver bright in the evening, flame red in the morning. The hours between were uniformly brown. The reed beds were mottled with black thickets of swamp, dominated by big trees with spiny, leafless branches so dark they looked rotted on the bough. Shallow seas blended darker shades into the waters of the land, deep greens and blacks, but throughout they were swirled with silt and sand.

It was an old world, a low world. Tired with the shudderings of the earth, it had left activity behind, and shook rarely with remembered vigour. Its sluggish tectonics would upheave no more mountains. The peaks it had in ages gone were long ground to fine dust, and the dust wetted down to mud. A sodden equilibrium was struck between land and sea, no one part very much higher than the other, so that water intruded everywhere, and no ocean bottom was far from the surface. Only at the very heart of its main continent did drier conditions exert themselves, but these were never less than moist. The poles wore caplets of grubby white comprised of more slush than ice.

Dulcis teemed with life, for old worlds are rich from epochs of decay, and the multiplicity of life forms that spring from rot. But as the world’s pulse had slowed, evolution was arrested. The creatures of Dulcis had existed for millions of years in their current forms. Any competent biologian would argue that they would change little more.

Astorath and the others gleaned these insights solely from the true-colour image. No technology greater than a tri-d pict was required to reveal the nature of Dulcis. The least acute of human eyes could see it for what it was: a dismal, drear place of reeking brakes and filthy water. It was an old man comfortable in his skin, nesting in the detritus of his life, best left alone to his odd habits by right-thinking beings.

Humanity rarely thought ahead clearly. The species expanded willy-nilly in all directions. There were far worse places than Dulcis to call home, but other races had passed it by.

‘Dulcis,’ said Dolomen. ‘Sweet.’ He translated the High Gothic name into the common vernacular. ‘Is that some kind of joke?’

Bedevoir grunted in amusement. ‘I thought so too,’ he said. ‘The punchline is all the more obvious when you get to the surface. Rarely have I seen such a profusion of browns. Dulcis truly is a jewel among the Emperor’s possessions.’

‘Sarcasm is the least honourable of weapons,’ said Astorath. He went helmet­less, as was his habit unless it was absolutely necessary to don it.

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