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Whispers – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Whispers

Alec Worley

Marcus Amouris bounded up the steps of the village shrine and appealed for calm as the Thunderhawk circled overhead. The ship’s sudden appearance, materialising out of the early morning mist like some mythological bird of prey, had interrupted the tribe’s dawn rituals and driven them into a panic. Mothers screamed, racing from the doorways of their huts to retrieve awestruck children from the storm of leaves and dirt churning beneath the transporter’s powerful turbines. The menfolk had already gathered into a mob, brandishing hunting mattocks as they beat their chests and bellowed challenges at the hovering vessel. The village shaman huddled on his knees, absorbed in frantic prayer to his obsolete deity.

Marcus tried not to smile. He always savoured this moment, when the scales finally fell from the eyes of the converted and they beheld the glorious light of the Emperor for the first time.

‘People of the Sundered Claw,’ he bellowed, his weathered robes snapping in the booming downdraught. ‘Your faith in me this season has been rewarded.’

He had mastered the nuances of the local dialect within weeks. His genius for languages had not dimmed in the years since he was an orphan boy, studying at one of the holy academies of the Schola Progenium.

His strident voice caught the ears of the tribe’s chieftain, a brute almost the size of a greenskin and flanked as always by his two hulking champions. The chieftain raised his ceremonial mattock – the Sundered Claw itself, its head fashioned from the talon of some prehistoric beast – as he roared for silence. All who heard it ceased their clamour and stood, squinting into the wind, all eyes on the Imperial missionary as he continued.

‘The curse upon your sacred forest shall soon be lifted,’ cried Marcus. ‘Your noble hunters shall be preyed upon no more.’

He gestured with a flourish towards the Thunderhawk, as though he had conjured it into existence. ‘Did I not promise an end to your famine? Did I not promise deliverance?’

The ship continued to circle the village, surveying the scene below. Its thrusters tore the mist into curling shreds, revealing the peninsula of low hills that opened to the south, then whipping the branches of the fathomless pine forest that otherwise enclosed the village like a bulwark.

‘Your honoured ancestors called the same god by many names,’ said Marcus. ‘The Grey Father, Cloudbearer, Ward of the Forest. But he has answered my prayers, granted me a portion of his command, because I know his true name.’

Marcus looked out over a sea of starving, enraptured faces, gazing at him like children spellbound by a campfire tale. Marcus welcomed the force of their attention. He absorbed their devotion like warmth, feeling something nourished deep within him.

‘And this is my gift to you,’ he said. ‘Your god’s true name…’ He paused, relishing the moment’s tension. ‘The Emperor.’

They gasped on cue. Several dropped to their knees as if with the weight of their revelation. The shaman was speaking into the ear of the perplexed chieftain. Ignoring them, Marcus singled out a thin woman nearby clutching her wailing child, her cheeks gaunt from weeks of hunger. He reached towards her with a gesture of entreaty.

‘And the Emperor does not stand by while the children of his disciples starve.’

He indicated the Thunderhawk once again as he addressed the rest of the tribe, directing the force of his words at the chieftain.

‘The Emperor has despatched a band of mighty celestial warriors, brave men whom he has sent to purge evil from your hunting grounds.’

The Thunderhawk finally peeled away towards a low hill outside the village. Marcus beamed at the thought of introducing the wide-eyed chieftain to a platoon of Imperial Guard: strangely armoured warriors summoned out of the sky. The tribe had never seen guns before and Marcus planned on ordering the squad to shoot a volley of las-fire into the air, overawing the tribe with a demonstration of the Emperor’s might.

As the dust subsided, Marcus got his first clear view of the Thunderhawk as it prepared to land on the tallest of the nearby hills. His face fell at the sight of the two crimson and black Rhino transporters the ship had clamped to its belly.

Emblazoned upon the side of both vehicles was a white fleur de lys.

Euphoria melted into panic as he leaped down the steps of the wooden shrine. His mouth was dry, his voice trembling as he hurriedly warned the tribe to remain within the village, not to venture near the ship until he had greeted the visiting warriors and assured them of the tribe’s faith. He pushed past several bemused tribespeople as he ran to the hill, his heart pounding, cursing whichever fool in the orbiting watch station had relayed his orders to the Ministorum.

He had requested assistance over two weeks ago, during which time he had been left to wonder whether his summons had been forgotten or relayed at all through his barely functioning vox-caster. The village food stores had continued to run low and the shaman had been asking too many questions, muttering too often into the chieftain’s ear. Skilled though he was in creative hyperbole, the missionary had found himself running out of excuses.

Marcus reached the crest of the hill. He gripped his knees, panting as the Thunderhawk’s front ramp yawned before him.

A towering figure in ebon power armour descended towards him, a scarlet tabard flowing from her waist. The woman wore a pistol holstered on her right hip; the beaded chain of an Imperial rosarius swung at the other. She wore her black hair short and straight, cut in the severe fashion of the Adepta Sororitas, the Sisters of Battle.

Her squad followed close behind, their boots clattering upon the metal ramp. The Battle Sisters were smaller than the monstrous Space Marines, but no less intimidating. Some carried bolters, their faces bare, expressions pitiless, eyes eerily intense. Others were encased entirely within their black power armour, faces hidden behind white crested visors as they hefted double-barrelled storm bolters.

The hazy morning sunlight revealed their commander’s face. She was pale as marble, sculpted yet scarred, a dark Y-shaped fissure running down one side of her face. She halted at the foot of the ramp and gazed at Marcus, her face immobile, eyes vivid green and unreadable. They were heavy-lidded as if with weariness, arched black eyebrows twin peaks of disdain. If her breath had not smoked in the cold air, Marcus felt he could have mistaken her for a statue.

‘Ave Imperator,’ she said, her lips motionless. Her voice emanated from a vox-grille in her sculpted gorget, the device giving her words a haunting metallic resonance. She continued: ‘I am Sister Adamanthea, Dominion Superior. I am told you need me to kill something.’

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A Black Library Publication

Published in Great Britain in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
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ISBN: 978-1-78572-735-1

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