Arcana (Warhammer 40,000 fiction)

A faint gust of wind blew through the night-shrouded gardens of Donalbain Manor, accompanied by the mute chirping of the various nocturnal birds situated in the ancient birch trees surrounding the exquisite enclosure. A solitary, flickering light shone through one of the large, expensive-looking windows, through which an old man surveyed his pride and joy. He had come to the paradise world of Gabriel IIX in search of peace and quiet after years of servitude to the honourable Inquisitor Jerichus, and he had finally achieved it through retirement. The ex-Savant smiled faintly before turning back to his desk, which was piled high with books, data-crystals and faded scrolls. A single candle burned on the desktop, and he frowned with irritation as he saw how low the flame was. Taking a seat, he began scanning a small stack of parchment in front of him, searching for the place that he had finished reading last. Upon finding it, he shifted into a more comfortable position and began to read, his left eye moving from side-to-side at an alarming rate (his right eye had been taken out years before by a Chaos Space Marine of the Word Bearers Legion, and had been replaced with a cybernetic implant).1

Minutes passed in silence as the old man continued to read, completely undisturbed. After roughly twenty minutes, he stifled a yawn and set the parchment down upon the desk, getting to his feet. He was tired, and required sleep. He moved to pick up the candle, and gave a jump as it went out at its own accord. His heart hammering like the angry chattering of bolter fire, he felt around for a match, but suddenly stopped and looked at the window, white-hot fear coursing through his body.2

“Footsteps...?” The old man listened closely, and thought he could hear the faint noise of distant, heavy footfalls. Deciding that he was just being paranoid, he began to search for the matchbox again.3

And the footsteps continued.4

*5

Akhmet the Enmaddening, Sorcerer-Lieutenant of the Thousand Sons Chaos Space Marines, advanced across the night-darkened grass, a pair of green eyepieces gleaming malevolently within the faceplate of his blue, yellow and gold helmet. His left hand rested on the holster of his bolt pistol, and his right loosely gripped the pommel of his sheathed power sword, while his eyes remained focused upon the walls of Donalbain Manor. He quickly hissed an order to the rest of his squad, who marched across the field in a uniform fashion, eyepieces shimmering with a faint shadow of lost sentience. These were Coffin Marines, Space Marines of the Thousand Sons whose bodies had been reduced to mere handfuls of dust when their chief librarian and Akhmet's current master, the sorcerer Ahriman, had cast the fateful Rubric of Ahriman to halt the otherwise-uncontrollable mutation that had been blighting the Legion. The Rubric had failed, reducing those among them without sorcerous powers to mere spirits eternally sealed within their armour – Akhmet had breathed a sigh of relief when he was spared the fury of the spell. However, that was long ago now, and Akhmet was now in search of a certain piece of arcana, which, according to his contacts, was in possession of the old man who lived at the manor – supposedly a retired Savant who had once served Inquisitor Jerichus. He had been seeking this piece of information for some time, as it supposedly contained information on the identity of one of the lost Space Marine Legions – he had still been in the early stages of training when they had been exterminated by the Warmaster’s forces, and so had not learned much of the other Legions at that point. He took in a deep breath, and then gestured to his squad to advance, eyes still locked upon the cream walls of the dwelling before him.6

*7

The old man walked down the hall of the manor, the relit candle in his hand casting the walls into a haunting relief. Breathing very faintly, so that he could hear anyone approaching, he laid his free, cybernetically augmented left hand upon the knob, and turned it slightly so as to make as little noise as possible. He took in a sharp intake of air as a haunting breeze seemed to blow through the hall, extinguishing the candle, despite the fact that all of the doors and windows had been shut and locked hours before. Feeling that someone was behind him, he swivelled around on his heel. He felt his heart skip a beat as he saw nine pairs of gleaming green eyes staring out of the darkness at him, their owners little more than hulking shadows in the near-darkness. He reached for the autopistol concealed in his robes, but he stopped, as is if forced by a mystical influence. The eyes continued to stare at him, their owners unmoving, making no noise whatsoever.8

“You know what we are here for, old man...” With a sweep of his gloved hand, Akhmet mysteriously re-ignited the candle in the man’s hand, revealing eight bolters and a bolt pistol, all trained upon the ex-Savant’s head. “And we will get what we seek.”9

“Over my dead body...” hissed the old man, who had began fumbling at the clasp of his autopistol’s holster once again. He knew what they sought, all right – it was within the right breast pocket of his robe – a data-crystal containing forbidden information that should have been forgotten long ago. And he knew that they would leave with what they wanted. There was no escaping the truth now.10

“Fair enough.” Akhmet gestured to his Thousand Sons, each of whom pulled back the hammers of their boltguns in unison. The old man held his breath as the Sorcerer held up all five fingers of his free hand. He put one down, and then another, counting down to the inevitable.11

Three seconds later, the angry hammering of bolter fire echoed throughout the manor, accompanied by a terrified shriek of agony. Akhmet laughed quietly as he kneeled down and pulled the data-crystal from the old man’s robe, placing it in a pouch on his own belt. He looked into the retired Inquisitorial henchman's eyes, which were now pooling with blood that oozed from the bullet wounds in his lined forehead.12

“Fair enough.”13