Alpharius: Head of the Hydra by Mike Brooks

Author:Mike Brooks
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-04-06T00:00:00+00:00

The Familiar Face

We touched down in Volda Beta's Prime City without any interference from the local authorities, and immediately exited the Terra's Glory. We left Captain Lanesra with instructions to proceed as usual with their cargo, but to be ready to return us to the Argolisa as required. Skorr's Headhunters melted into the darkness, already intent on their targets, while Gukul and I headed in a different direction.

We wore hooded cloaks, more to occlude our bulk than hide our faces, and I used my gift to diminish myself in the eyes of any observers, while Gukul deployed a low-level psychic shroud. Volda Beta's population were not too far below Astartes height on average, and some of the taller natives could have nearly looked Gukul in the eyes, so we were far from being giants in comparison, but Gukul would have weighed two or three times as much as a normal Voldan. Still, the nature of the population, and the traffic of the Imperium bringing a wide variety of people to these shores, meant we were not exceedingly remarkable.

We passed through a crowded market district, still bustling despite the fact Volda Beta was into its eighteen-hour night cycle, and the gentle drizzle. I steered us towards a small stall selling fresh vegetables: long, pale tuberoots; fat squamish; and purple, bulbous darishes. I hadn't been looking for this stall as such, but the sign above it contained symbols common to those who worked with my Legion: stylised alpha symbols from the Helac script of ancient Terra, and the unbroken chain. They were not concealed in the design, but were seamlessly integrated in an aesthetically pleasing manner. I have always emphasised the benefits of hiding in plain sight where possible.

The proprietor was another Voldan, and the threads on her robes indicated a social status no higher than that of Captain Lanesra. She glanced up at us curiously as we edged our way to the front of her stall, but with no immediate recognition in her eyes.

'Greetings,' Gukul said, in Low Gothic. 'We're looking for a storyteller.'

The stallholder eyed us. 'I sell food, not stories, but mayhap I can help. Was there a word or a name about which you wanted a tale?' 'Hades,' Gukul replied. One of the scraps of myth remaining from ancient Terra, a brother who drew a lot that saw him consigned to the underworld of death. The word had not been chosen by me.

The stallholder nodded. 'The refugees have all sorts of tales to tell. Might be you II find what you're looking for in their lodgings. Now, are you buying?'

I selected a darish, and paid for it using an Imperial Throne. The stallholder gave me my change, and we moved away without looking back. I placed the change into the money pouch on my belt and rubbed my thumb over a coin that felt a little different to the rest. A series of raised bumps greeted my inspection: a language of touch I had developed and disseminated out

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