Swords of the Imperium (Dark Fantasy Novel) (The Polaris Chronicles Book 2) (32 page)

“This is a place of ill repute,” Sir Juan Diaz de Villavilla said. He stroked his goatee and peered at the front of the Admiral’s Club. The sole surviving inn of the Sepulchral Burg, it reeked of opium. The chevalier sniffed deeply. “Such blasphemy, and yet it is our transgressions which make life enjoyable,
tambien.
”

“It’s certainly not the Tintoretto, but if the rooms have locks, then perhaps we should count our blessings,” Sir Janus Eicke said.

Samara, who stood beside him, looked pleased to have a chance to set down nearly fifty kilograms of her master’s possessions.

Ringo smirked at the sight of her burden and made sure that she could see him. Even though she could snap him like a twig, she still had to keep up appearances as a servant for the fat Teuton, and thus carried a heavier load than the rest. After what had transpired in New Korinthos, he had been in a spiteful mood, especially where she was concerned.

Hecaton emerged from the inn with smoke billowing at her feet and a coarsely rolled cigar clamped between her teeth. She had gone on ahead a few hours ago, with the ostensible purpose of scouting the Burg and securing their lodging. Simply holing up in one of the abandoned properties was not an option: thieves were everywhere, and the chevaliers needed a decent rest. Yet, Ringo noticed with annoyance, Hecaton had obviously just been gambling or indulging in opium or both.

“Hey, boys,” she said. “You can come on in. They won’t bite. Rooms upstairs at the end of the hall.”

“You’re a sodden mess,” Ringo said.

Hecaton rolled her eyes. “Chaperoning you all drives a woman to drink.”

“Milady, I would be honored to join you in your libations,” Juan said with a wink.

Hecaton beckoned for him to join her and disappeared back into the den.

Janus looked at Ringo and shrugged. “Well, shall we go upstairs?”

Hecaton’s promise of rooms had not been a lie. Ringo claimed one immediately, flopped into the bed without taking off his boots, and slumbered like the dead.

Later, he awoke to the sound of knocking. He cracked an eye open and quietly drew his blade. Slowly, he sidled up to the door. Robbery was common in lawless burgs like this.

“Aye?” He tried to sound noncommittal.

“It’s me,” Samara said.

Ringo did not sheathe his dagger but eased it to his side. He unbarred the door and opened it to allow a sliver of light in.

“Put your stupid pigsticker away and let me in,” she said, and pushed the door open.

“What do you want?” His gaze fell to an oblong object wrapped in canvas that she carried.

“This is for you,” she said, and pushed the parcel into his hands. “You’re the least well equipped of all of us. I can’t protect you all the time.”

Ringo scowled at her temerity, but she was right. Unlike Juan and Janus, he only had a small blade to fight with. He started to undo the canvas and tried to suppress his anticipation. A broadsword would be nice, or perhaps even a matchlock to give him distance. The sight of oak and forged steel quickened his heart, and he pulled her offering fully from its wrappings.

“An Enfield!” He cradled the rifle with relish. He grasped the fore end in one hand and worked the bolt with his other. The action was impossibly smooth. “I carried one in the Ordo,” he said, boasting like a new squire. It was really someone else’s gun and not his, but simply holding one again was welcome balm on the ulcers of his soul. He had hocked his old rifle to avoid losing his hovel; that day, the world had darkened permanently.

He sensed Samara smiling, and his own smile soured. Surely she wasn’t feeling happy to see his reaction. No, this was probably something to draw him further and further into her witch’s web.

“Where did you get this?” he said, and hurriedly shut the door. The last things he needed now were prying eyes.

“From a drunken praetorian, of course.”

“How did you…” He stopped. “No, I don’t want to know.” He looked down at the rifle and then back at her. “I hope you don’t expect me to kowtow.”

“A simple ‘thank you’ will suffice.” She looked downcast.

To his surprise, Ringo found himself feeling contrite. He set the rifle near his bed, got to one knee, and kissed her hand.
How many years since I did this as a squire?
Strangely, as hackneyed as it was, the silly old ritual felt fulfilling. “You have my sincere gratitude, milady.”

Samara blushed. So there
were
things that could unsettle her, after all.

“It’ll help the mission,” she said, and turned away.

Ringo rose, filled with new energy. A brief glance through a sliver of open shutter told him that it was firmly evening. “Where’s everyone else?”

“The knights are gaming. Old Mezeta is having a grand old time sharping them.”

“Then I shall also try my luck.” He patted his money pouch and was rewarded with the clink of milligrad. Even a single round of Luger could carry an evening of cards, and a few reloads were enough for a quick roll in a brothel afterward. He went for the door.

Samara cocked her head. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think? I’m leaving to go find some grog and some company,” Ringo said. “Don’t worry, Imperial. I’m not the sort who blathers while in his cups. Your secret’s safe.”

“I didn’t say you could leave.”

“Be reasonable, wench. I’m a healthy man.” Ringo shook his head and reached for the handle.

Samara’s hand clamped around his wrist. “Don’t call me that.”

He winced. “Ah, right, I’m sorry, milady. I’ll be going now.”

“But I want you to stay.”

Ringo sucked his teeth. “And do
what
? I’m not pretending to be a servant like you. I have the right to enjoy myself about town.”

Samara eased her grip. He again reached for the door, only to stop when her hands settled on his chest.

“What are
you
doing?” He didn’t like what her demeanor suggested. It wasn’t menacing, but rather, disconcertingly lonely.

“Keep me company. Please.”

“We have little to discuss.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do I have to spell it out for your stupid ass? I want you to pleasure me, Ursalan. That’s part of what you agreed to.”

“Huh? I never…godrot you, that’s just a farce for if the others get suspicious. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be Eicke’s toy?”

“No, but you’re mine. So do your duty.” She reached to her neckline and pulled open the lacing of her shirt. The linen fell about her shoulders.

Despite his indignation, Ringo still felt his heart quicken. After misery on a boat and a week of travel without any chance to stop at a brothel, he was indeed in need of respite. And no matter how much he despised her, Samara was still a woman.
I’m being used like a common wench.
He stopped himself. The thought was too humiliating to dwell on.
Godrot it, as long as I’m stuck doing her bidding, I might as well have some fun.
He sighed, and his hand slipped from the door handle. Reluctantly, he reached to her waist and put his lips to hers.

The next morning, Ringo shivered in the chilly air as he trudged toward the Sepulchre. Underneath his homespun, he wore brigandine and greaves, but the wind still found a way to his sensitive skin. Juan and Janus were also dressed as ragged, traveling pilgrims. Samara, disguised as a young nun, walked ahead. She turned her head to peer at Ringo, and he angrily looked away. The shame of last night burned brightly still.

To stifle his self-loathing, he focused his wrath on Hecaton. Everyone else was rightfully tense, save for her. The old hag traipsed along in her mismatched outfit of an Argead officer’s blouse, clam-digger pants, and decaying ancient sandals with pink plastic thongs.
An officer, my ass!

If all went smoothly, Hecaton would pull rank on the praetorian guard at the entrance and allow them all to pass under the guise of an escorted religious mission. If the guards did not allow this, then the chevaliers would simply take the men out with a minimum of noise and quietly sneak onto the premises. It was risky, but better than simply rushing in.

Ringo exhaled in relief when he saw that the Sepulchre was only lightly guarded: four bored-looking praetorians with Temple guns that weren’t likely loaded. Other members of that elite cadre patrolled the rooftops but seemed disinterested in their tasks. Notably, the Imperial flag was absent from the premises. The praetorians manning the gates tensed and raised their rifles as Hecaton strolled up to them.

“Halt,” a lieutenant ordered. “The
Ooss
is closed to pilgrimage by order of the basileus!”

Hecaton stuck out her tongue, raised her arms, and blasted the man to nothingness. His companions were flung aside by the impact and broke into ash dust when they hit the ground. The iron gates of the Sepulchre glowed red-hot at ragged edges, which curled apart like opening petals of a chrysanthemum.

Ringo’s jaw dropped. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he snarled. He curled his fingers under the clasp across his throat and pulled his cloak off. “I thought we were going to
sneak
in!”

Hecaton looked at him as if he were the stupidest man alive. “Where’d you get that idea? I’m a hundred arms of destruction! I don’t
sneak.
”

She aimed her palm out at a small group of praetorians, who rushed out with halberds, and snapped her fingers. The ground erupted underneath them with teeth-shattering force and flung bodies and weapons aside like broken staves. With her other hand, she pointed at another squad of defenders and sent a bolt of lightning that seared the air and turned men into bloody steam.

By Jove, Samara was right. I don’t stand a godrotting chance against this monster
. He unslung his Enfield and regarded it for a fraction of a second. Against a seasoned fighter, it was a formidable weapon; against this horrific biddy, it might as well have been a broom. Hecaton sauntered in through the mangled gate, and a chorus of gunfire and screaming erupted from within.

“
No mames,
Sir Ringo!” Juan shouted at him. “We’re going in like real men!” The Valencian drew a pair of finely engraved rapiers and charged the entrance. Janus followed, shuffling and out of breath.

Ringo clenched his jaw to still his trembling. Through the gaping mass of twisted iron was a smoking abyss of flying bullets that only a complete fool would dare enter. If he wished, he could always simply retreat back into the cover of the surrounding brush and escape. None of the praetorians who had seen his face were still alive.

“Don’t even
think
about running, you pansy,” Samara said, and pressed her back against his. In her hands was a Temple gun.

Ringo wheeled on her with ferocity that startled even him. “Damn you, I’m no coward!”

Samara blinked and wiped a fleck of spittle from her brow. “Easy there. Are you still upset because you cried after we did it?”

“I did
not
cry.” He flushed crimson. “It was all the dust in the mattress.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of! And maybe I like that side of you.”

“Godrotting witch!”

Samara laughed and dragged him into the Sepulchre.

The inside would have been an awe-inspiring, even faith-stirring sight if not for the pitched battle that raged within. The
Ooss
was an alien-looking monolith that rested on its side like a giant in repose. Squat keel blocks, blackened from age, suspended it off the ground. Most of its body was obscured by wooden scaffolding for laborers to lovingly rub its surface with anointed oil and priests to bless the work with a kiss and a wave of the censer. The rituals, repeated faithfully every on every seventh day since the founding of the Dominion, had kept the sacred coffin from rusting apart and releasing the dangers sealed within.

Ringo’s eyes tarried on the
Ooss
for longer than necessary. Samara yanked at the back of his jerkin, and he stumbled just in time to avoid a bullet. Chastened, he took cover behind a keel block. Bodies lay sprawled about, some charred beyond recognition. Though he should have been thinking solely about survival, Ringo instead wondered why there was no water around; Hecaton had told them all that the
Ooss
was supposedly a boat.

Silly me,
it’s a dry dock,
he realized as he glanced about.
Their holy site is a giant slipway. Past the far doors is probably a sea channel. But we’ll never move the damned boat with just four! These things take entire legions to budge!
Nearby, he saw Hecaton smirking as she puffed on a cigarette with irritating disregard to the battle going on around her. The sight infuriated him: Had she just led them in here to die, after all?

“Damn you, Mezeta! What the fuck do we do now?” He heard the sound of shuffling in the periphery, however, and the need for self-preservation outweighed his need to berate her. He peeked around the edge of the block and spied an approaching praetorian. He leveled his rifle and blew a hole in the man’s chest and then returned his ire to Hecaton. “Did you just bring us here to die?”