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Do you think me weak, flawed? Do you hate me for setting my Inquisitorial role above the needs of one agonised being? If you do, I commend you. I think of that woman still, and hate the fact I left her to die slowly. But if you hate me, I know this about you… you are no inquisitor. You don’t have the moral strength.
He opened his mouth in shock and I pushed the muzzle of Vibben’s gun into it. I’m sure he wanted to say something important. I didn’t care what it was.
‘And next time you choose to confront an Imperial inquisitor,’ I added, ‘you may want to be more respectful. I’m excusing a lot because I recognise the trauma and loss you have suffered. But my patience isn’t limitless… unlike my authority.’
Wow
‘Who do you work for, Fischig?’ ‘The Emperor.’ ‘Then pretend I’m him and you won’t be far wrong. Do it.’
‘I– I have rights!’ The man spat suddenly. ‘You are in the custody of the Imperial Inquisition,’ I told him frankly. ‘You have no rights whatsoever.’
‘Just like that, I can stop your heart. Burst your brain. Blind you. So play along.’ With all the strength I could muster, I smiled and told him his sister had particularly commended my love-making skills over his.
His mind was brilliant: charming, witty, incisive, and formidably knowledgeable. It was a pleasure to talk to him and learn from him. It was a salutary reminder of the quality of mind that Chaos can steal. The greatest of us, the brightest, the most urbane and learned, can fall prey.
From your moaning, Molitor, I wonder what kind of man I am listening to. A radical, certainly. An inquisitor? I have my doubts.’
Branch-like tendrils of bone and tissue whipped out from the swirling, semi-fluid behemoth and tore Malahite apart. It was the most complete, most devastating fate I have ever seen a man suffer. But he was still smiling, triumphantly, as it happened.
‘Spirit of noxious immateria, be gone from hence, for as the Emperor of Mankind, manifold be his blessings, watches over me, so I will not fear the shadow of the warp…’
and Brytnoth actually extended his little finger as he lifted the porcelain cups by the handle. He was to me the embodiment of war in peacetime, a vast power bound into genteel behaviour, striving to prevent his awesome strength from breaking loose. He would lift the cup, small finger extended, consult his notes and ask another question before sipping. The fact that small finger was the size and shape of an Arbites’ truncheon was beside the point.
I don’t care if every man jack of them forgets his own mother’s name and wets himself, they must still know how to hold a line, fire and reload, adore the Emperor and respond to orders.’
‘Let us both be abundantly clear about this, Gregor. You will give me the primer. Either you will hand me the primer now, or I will come over to you and take it. And break every bone in your body. And defile that girl at your side. And break every bone in her body too. And then drag your jiggling carcasses down into the chamber below and string you both up on the hooks, and burn out your agony centres as I wait for the bombardment to flatten this place.’
