Dark Vengeance by C Z Dunn

Author:C Z Dunn [Dunn, C Z]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2012-08-10T23:00:00+00:00

Interrogator-Chaplain Seraphicus

‘Wake up.’

The back of my gauntleted hand impacts against the flesh of the heretic’s cheek and his eye opens with a start.

‘Now, where were we?’ I expand the forceps in the wound on his shoulder, tearing open the scab that has formed in the hours since I last interrogated him. He responds with a scream and, just as he looks like he’s going to pass out again from the pain, I slide a syringe into the side of his neck and depress the plunger.

‘What… what is he doing to me?’ His eye appears to be looking beyond me, as if there is another presence in the room.

‘“He” is ensuring that you remain conscious for the next stage of the interrogation. I don’t want you passing out from the pain and I assure you, there will be plenty of pain.’

He laughs, flecking his lips with blood. ‘Pain? He thinks he knows the meaning of the word.’ Another laugh, and his eye focuses on me now. ‘Let me down from here and I’ll show you the true meaning of pain.’ He rattles the shackles binding him to the wall of the interrogation chamber. Even if he hadn’t been weakened by days of torture, the adamantium bonds would hold even the strongest Traitor Astartes, having done so quite successfully on many previous occasions.

Ignoring him, I continue my questioning.

‘Who do you keep talking to? All subcutaneous communication devices were torn from your flesh when you were brought aboard. I know this for a fact as I removed them myself.’ I move over to the table at the rear of the chamber and pick up a serrated blade. ‘Are you speaking to your gods? A prayer before dying?’

Blade in hand, I slowly approach the prisoner, fixing him with my gaze. He says nothing, but returns my stare.

‘For the last time, who do you keep speaking to?’

Several seconds pass in silence before I ram the serrated blade into the base of his ribcage and drive it upwards into the bottom of his multi-lung. He lets out a half-scream, half-wheeze and blood spurts from his nostrils. I am just about to drive the blade even further in when he speaks.

‘Them. I’m speaking to them.’

‘Who do you mean? Who are they?’ My grip on the knife tightens. If the next answer isn’t a straight one then I will twist the blade.

‘The Balethu. The ghosts of the Balethu,’ he says in a voice that is not his own. His body relaxes, as if unburdening himself of this information has granted him physical relief. I relinquish my grip on the blade but leave it embedded in his torso.

‘The Balethu?’ I cradle his jaw in my hand and lift his head to face me. His eyeball has rolled in its socket, leaving only bloodshot white showing. ‘Who are the Balethu?’

‘The inhabitants of a jungle world called Umidia. At least we were until the Crimson Sabres arrived and slaughtered us all like cattle. We prayed to Khor’en to make the killing end but our god revels in the shedding of blood and our calls went unheeded, or so we thought.

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