Sons of the Hydra by Rob Sanders

Author:Rob Sanders
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Published: 2017-12-07T07:15:19+00:00

ξ

The Shrewdness of Serpents

The ship felt different.

It was as apparent to Mina Perdita as it was to all on board the Iota-Æternus. The Seventh Sons were like the crew of any vessel entering the immaterium. Superstitious sayings were uttered, rituals were observed for good fortune. Thanks would be given as the vessel broke the warp at the end of its journey, however long or short it might have been. Entering the Maelstrom was something else, though.

Even in the service of their Alpha Legion overlords, the Maelstrom had been a phenomenon to be skirted and avoided. Its radiance was always there, dominating the void.

Lord Occam had committed the Iota-Æternus and its crew to plunging into the depths of the deadly storm with only a traitorous Word Bearer as their guide. Sayings and rituals were not enough to comfort the cultist crew this time.

Passing through the living quarters Perdita could see that the Seventh Sons were suffering. They were as stalwart as ever in the prosecution of their duties and murderously loyal to Lord Occam, but days riding the perverse currents of the storm had left many cultists ashen-faced and the corridors were tinged with the sharp tang of vomit. Even the charlatan Freydor Blatch found it hard to keep up appearances, the High Serpent having lost his appetite for private revelry. He still took a bottle of amasec to his chambers at the end of the watch, however, claiming that the potent liquor served to calm his stomach.

As for Perdita, she grumbled and vomited with the rest of them but mainly to keep up appearances. Every time she endured the effect of polymorphine burning through her veins she had to suffer the bending of bones, the stretching of skin and the rupture of flesh. The first few times she had attempted such transformations at the temple she had emptied her stomach onto the polished stone floor. Now, it took a little more than the sickening roll of the ship in a perpetual storm to unsettle her.

Ordinarily the death cultists of the Seventh Sons were unshakeable. Their faith was sustained, like Perdita’s own, by the expectation that they were always mere moments from the end, expecting death to come for them in the form of a bolt or blade. The Maelstrom represented something else, however. The entities howling through the storm, dragging their claws along the hull or whispering seductive horrors to the cultists through their dreams did not promise anything. Their gift was a thousand wishes granted and the eternity of torment that came with them. The cultists were ever fearful that the Geller field might collapse and their flesh would be torn to ribbons by the daemon monstrosities rampaging through the ship. Their ultimate terror, however, was that they might answer the call of such entities and surrender their souls. Such were the fears of mortals in the crushing depths of warp-churning oblivion.

Perdita was dressed like a female menial, a member of the Seventh Sons the High Serpent had assigned to attend upon their Alpha Legion overlords.

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