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The Whispering Blade – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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The Whispering Blade

Matthew Harffy

Janos A’Cado had not been certain of much since the annihilation of his regiment, but when he saw the hooded figures clustered around the merchant, he was sure of one thing: his time of running was finally at an end. He tensed, every muscle taut, ready for action. He wished he had his lasgun with him, but he had left it in the auto-transport. His left hand crept towards the hilt of the dagger he wore on his belt, but before his fingers could touch the pommel of the weapon, Janos halted. The cloaked strangers had not seen him. Perhaps all was not lost. He should not act hastily. He remembered his training.

Survey. Evaluate. Plan. Act.

Sergeant Silion would have approved. Drawing in a ragged breath through the rebreather that filtered Cantwarum’s chem-thick air, Janos stepped quickly into the shelter of a doorway. He might no longer be a Guardsman, but he could not so easily abandon the years of training and drills. He would watch. He would prepare. And then he would act.

There were half a dozen figures crowded around the stocky merchant. Their stances were threatening. The hazy light from Cantwarum’s sun gleamed dully from the barrels of pistols jutting from beneath their dark cloaks. The merchant tried to take a step back, but was blocked by one of the armed men. The merchant muttered something and shook his head. The tallest of the cloaked strangers stepped close and held up a long-fingered hand. His index finger was adorned with an ornate gold band that caught the watery light. Janos’ stomach clenched. He could not be certain from this distance, but he thought he saw the skull-and-bar symbol of the Inquisition.

Power emanated from the towering stranger, and the merchant, a strong man whom Janos had once seen coolly face down three stimm-crazed workers from the Babcock spread without breaking a sweat, was visibly frightened.

‘Farmplex O-Sixty-Six, you say?’ said the inquisitor, his voice low but somehow carrying to Janos even over the grinding crash of machinery from the nearby loading dock. ‘Now tell me, how do we get there?’

Janos suppressed a shiver, despite the day being hot enough for the trading post’s plascrete buildings to steam. The inquisitor knew where he lived! So, there could be no doubt. They had come for him at last.

‘Or perhaps, citizen,’ the inquisitor continued in his softly threatening tone, ‘I should question your loyalty to the Throne.’

The merchant, clearly having decided cooperation was key to his future, began rapidly mumbling directions. Without warning, the inquisitor turned away from the man to gaze into the shadows where Janos hid.

Without hesitation, Janos clutched the hilt of the dagger sheathed on his hip. His mind was instantly filled with the familiar whispers. The distant, green-tinged clouds that rose from the agri fields around the trading post of Tenterdan appeared to swirl and flicker with strange eldritch light. Janos hardly noticed the change. He did not breathe as the inquisitor stared directly at him. The man’s eyes were hidden behind tinted plex-glass goggles, but for a long moment, Janos was certain he had been seen. The sibilant voices in his mind soothed Janos, telling him in their countless tongues that he was safe, that they would not allow any harm to come to him. Janos hated himself for accepting their balm over the certainty of the Emperor’s divine grace. For the briefest of moments, he was tempted to shout out to the inquisitor. He was a heretic and deserved the punishment the Holy Ordos planned for him. He was so tired of hiding. To be caught might even be a relief.

Janos silently cursed himself. It hardly mattered what happened to him, but he had put Gen in danger. What a fool he had been to think he could live a normal life with the woman. Gen had been good to him, offering him a purpose and shelter at her farmplex, and this was how he repaid her. By bringing the Inquisition to her door. If he gave himself up, did he truly believe the inquisitor would not seek out the woman who had housed him? They would surely question her about what she knew. His stomach turned to think of what methods they might use to get her to talk.

The hooded man tilted his head as if pondering some complex question and turned back to the merchant. Janos held his breath, but the inquisitor did not call out, did not order his men to restrain the heretical deserter.

The inquisitor had seen him, Janos was certain. But the blade had hidden him, as it always did. He had not been sure it would work against one so powerful. He had never had cause to test it before. It was one thing for it to touch the minds of rogue trader crewmen, merchants and farmhands, but quite another to cloak his presence from one of the feared servants of the Holy Ordos.

The voices in his head grew quiet, as if they were listening. Janos knew they were still there, lurking in the darkest chasms of his mind, just on the edge of thought and sanity.

Keeping his hand on the dagger, Janos backed away around the corner of the street, turning only when he could no longer see the inquisitor and his retinue.

Two servitors, straining under the weight of a pesti-sprayer, trudged past, their bioengineered eyes blank as their master guided them with terse commands. Janos stepped out of their way, splashing into an oily puddle on the cracked rockcrete of the road. A laden transport trundled by, sending up a wave of chem-heavy water and muck. The filth splashed over Janos and soaked the farmer and his servitors. The cybernetic drones continued on without pause, while their master cursed, shouting abuse at the retreating vehicle. Janos hurried on, oblivious of the reeking liquid that trickled down his back.

He sprinted along the mist-shrouded streets to where he had left the auto-transport. He was panting by the time he jumped into the vehicle’s cabin. He ripped the rebreather from his face the instant he had slammed the door shut behind him and the auto-transport’s filtered air began to flow into the cabin. He loathed wearing the mask. He never felt he could draw in enough oxygen, and it did nothing to filter out the acrid smells of Cantwarum. But to remove the mask outside for any length of time would see his throat and lungs ravaged by the fumes from the powerful chemicals used in the agri-plantation fields.

When he had been a boy, surrounded by soaring plascrete towers, glimpsed through the smog of pollution, he had imagined agri worlds would be covered in green fields and clear skies. Refreshing cool breezes would ripple across swaying crops, bringing on the air the scent of new life. The truth was far from that idyllic image. Cantwarum was wreathed in noxious chem-clouds given off by rivers of growth-enhancers and nutrients. Nothing was left to chance to hit the crop quotas demanded by the insatiable hunger of the billions of mouths of the Imperium.

Janos removed his hand from the blade at his side and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to flee. His thoughts tumbled in his mind. The inquisitor. The glint of the golden skull on his pallid finger. The dark plasglass of the goggles as he’d stared at Janos. The whispering of the dagger’s countless voices.

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