Stormcaller (Warhammer 40,000) by Chris Wraight

Author:Chris Wraight [Wraight, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2015-09-24T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

The crystalflex viewer still filled with intermittent light, dazzling from discharged lances, though the mortal danger had passed. Vindicatus had pulled back to agreed coordinates, holding position parallel to the plague-hulk and remaining just on the edge of its mainline gun-range. The cruiser’s shields fizzed and guttered as the tech-adepts struggled to restore them, but otherwise damage had been containable – just a few hundred casualties along the macrocannon-ranks; nothing to lose sleep over.

The Cardinal’s throne dominated the centre of the bridge. Its seat was high-backed, ridged with gold and lined with blood-red leather. A domed silk canopy hung over him, held up by the grunting efforts of twelve skull-faced cherubs. Incense filtered out through grilles in the throne’s side-panels, dribbling across the marble dais in filmy swirls.

Hundreds of bodies moved in the spaces under the gaze of the throne. Most wore the crimson livery of the Grand Cruiser’s bridge crew, their faces tattooed with the Cardinal’s emblem and their tabards draped in devotional screeds. Others were tech-priests, spared the most egregious symbols of the Ministorum and given a wide berth by their superstitious counterparts. A few were of Sister Nuriyah’s battalion, towering over the non-power armoured, their cloaks swishing softly as they strutted.

The crowds moved with a purpose, tracing pathways across the enormous bridge expanse. Data-slates were passed from hand to hand and orders were conveyed in soft whispers. Vindicatus’s command stations echoed with the hum of earnest tactical consultations. With its towering columns of bronze and its glassy seas of polished marble, the bridge looked a little like one of the great cathedral precincts of Holy Terra, and that was not entirely accidental.

Delvaux rested his elbows on his lap, and considered the situation. He hardly noticed any of the finery. He had hardly noticed it for many years – opulence was the water in which he swam, as transparent as the seas around a shark. His gaze fixed on the floor-to-roof observation panels at the far end of the bridge. Immense facets of armourglass, framed by curved metal fixings in the shape of angels’ wings, gave a superlative view of the void outside. Ocular implants in his left eye superimposed fleet markers over the polished surface, delineating the patterns of combat still taking place in the vacuum.

He gloomily watched the surviving wings of his interceptors taking their chances against the last dregs of the plague-hulk’s escort. He watched Heimdall stay riskily close to the enemy ship’s lance range, continuing to loose its weapons with reckless defiance. He watched the three slate-grey gunships wheel and dive, shadowing the hulk like raptors harrying prey too big for them.

For a long time he did not stir, lost in his thoughts, knowing none of his servants would so much as dare to look up at him.

None but one.

‘What do you make of it?’ asked Klaive.

Delvaux twitched, and looked down. He hadn’t heard the confessor approach. Klaive was out of armour, wearing his favoured black robes, velvet stole and soft slippers. The

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