[Ravenor 01] - Ravenor by Dan Abnett

Author:Dan Abnett [Abnett, Dan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction. warhammer 40000
ISBN: 9781844160730
Publisher: Games Workshop
Published: 2005-03-27T23:00:00+00:00

The cabin, badly lit and untidy, was pretty much the only place in the Imperium Harlon Nayl thought of as home. In a long, bruising life extended by juvenat treatments - Nayl was just over a hundred, standard, but looked a robust late-thirties - he had known a number of homes. Loki - cold, hard, unforgiving Loki - was his birthworld, but he'd outstayed his welcome there pretty much the same day he decided to follow his brothers into the bounty-hunting business. Loki hadn't been home for a long time now. He'd wandered for some years, not so much in pursuit of work but because pursuit was his work. Then he'd crossed paths with an inquisitor called Eisenhorn.

As part of Eisenhorn's band, he'd had residence in a number of places, and remembered most fondly the Ocean House of Thracian Primaris and Eisenhorn's estate, Spaeton House, on Gudrun. Both of those were memories now, just as Eisenhorn himself was. No one had seen the inquisitor since the affair on Ghul back in the eighties. Nayl often wondered if Eisenhorn was dead. So many of them were from that time... Fischig, Aemos, Tobias Maxilla, Eleena Koi. That's what this life did: it killed you, sooner or later. Serve the ordos of the Holy Inquisition, and eventually that duty got you dead.

Nayl pressed the hatch-stud and closed the door behind him. He moved through the gloom, and snapped on a few glow-globes. A status monitor by the door showed a pulsing red light. They were warp-bound now. He'd felt the shudder.

His cabin was quite small and situated on the end of a corridor. The shipmistress had bequeathed an entire deck to Ravenor and his entourage as their own private, sovereign state. The Hinterlight's crew never came here, except by invitation. It was even off-limits to the cleaning servitors, which probably explained why his room smelled of socks.

To his left, in an alcove, an unmade bunk, surrounded by scattered clothes, data-slates and books. Various pict-shots decorated the wall over the cot like a shrine. Most of them were faded, the emulsion peeling. In the main part of the room stood a small table and three chairs, a codifier terminal linked to the vessel's data system, and a row of recessed cupboards built in between the bulkheads. To his right was the sliding door into the head and the upright washroom.

Nayl dropped his kitbag on the floor, where it became one of many. The main area was littered with equipment packs, rolled-up body gloves, boots, pieces of armour, tools, and various weapons that he really should have returned to the arsenal. One of these days he was going to get up in the night for a piss and tread on a loaded hand-cannon. Then he'd have to do some frigging explaining. And, most likely, go hunting for some missing toes.

Nayl wandered across to the bulkhead cupboards. He was limping. He ached. The free-for-all in the Carnivora had been less than fun. Reaching out to the cupboard latch, he noticed how skinned and raw his knuckles were.

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