So, here’s another one of the novels I’m working on at the moment. This one’s been on the go in some form or another for a lot longer than the Ramides Cluster book, and has seen a lot of re-writes and changes in writing style. Its central character is Damien Bloodhound, aka “The Bloodhound”, a character from Games Workshop’s Inquisitor range. His character appealed to me, and a felt there was a lot that could be done with him. The one idea that really jumped out at me was the thought of watching an Inquisitors warband follow a case, but not from the Inquisitors view - from one of the ‘henchmen’.
So, here it is (well, the start anyway), The Bloodhound: Zenethene’s Collar.
Chapter I: Sefus Incorruptus
Location: Hive Sefus.
Hive world of Teclis, Segmentum Pacificus.
6:48 am, Local Time
The fat, red sun rose above the distant, haze shrouded horizon, its harsh red light driving back the shadows of night as it flowed across the cracked, dry landscape of Teclis. It flowed around the half-buried boulders and rocks, and streamed through the empty windows of the shattered ruins that had once housed the inhabitants of Teclis. Its heat began to evaporate the toxic mists that covered much of the planet come nightfall, and melted away the light frost that covered the tops of the boulders and ruins that protruded from the thinning carpet of fog. The whole landscape glowed a fiery orange as the sunlight illuminated the fog like some enormous glow-tube.
Damien watched the sun begin its gentle climb into the deep blue sky, leaning on the wall beside the window. At this level the window was grubby and scratched, but still mostly transparent, and he was high enough in the Hive to look down onto the fog, rather than out into it. He idly mused that this was probably the sort of thing to inspire minstrels and poets. With a grunt, he stood straight, and turned away from the window. In front of him now, rather than the almost-pleasant scenery of Teclis, there was a non-descript corridor immediately occupied by an irate bald male in purple robes, and a larger, greasy looking male in the matt grey coverall of a Hive docking supervisor.
The male in the robes was Nerist, one of several adjutants to an Imperial Inquisitor who had recently shown up here on Teclis. And he was currently getting very angry at the other male. Damien didn’t know his name, but he was apparently important to the next stage of the investigation. Damien watched them, and the corridors around him, listening. At the moment, the Inquisitors presence here was supposed to be a secret, so Nerist was posing as a Scribe from the Administratum. Unfortunately, an Administratum Scribe didn’t have anywhere near as much power as an adjutant to an Inquisitor. A fact that was being clearly demonstrated by the dockworker, who seemed to be flatly refusing whatever it was that Nerist was asking for.
Nerist gestured emphatically at the docker, and his nasal tones took on a distinctly annoyed tone. Damien covered a smile with his hand, covering his mouth, and rubbing his unshaven cheek. Damien didn’t like Nerist. He didn’t like any of the Inquisitors adjutants, but he disliked Nerist the most. Although that was probably just because he’d been forced to spend the most time with Nerist. Six days of wandering through the lower levels of the Hive, huge, cavern-like receiving bays, reading through delivery manifests, wandering through the stacks of goods and other necessary stores in huge, cavernous warehouses. With the nasal, condescending tones of Nerist to accompany him. The adjutant seemed to think that Damien, as a ‘hired-gun’ was below his own hallowed status of Savant. Damien enjoyed seeing him being ignored by the docker.
However, the longer the docker said ‘no’, the longer Damien had to spend standing in this corridor, listening to the grating voice of Nerist growing more and more irate, and consequently, louder and louder. And the longer it would take to find whatever it was the Inquisitor was looking for. Damien grimaced. The longer that took, the longer the Inquisitor would have Damien in his employ, and the longer he’d have to find out who Damien really was. And that would be really bad.
It was early, and Damien had been up late the night before, and was in no mood to wait around whilst this jumped-up crate-pusher decided to flaunt his meagre authority, even if it did really annoy Nerist. Damien pushed himself off from the wall, and walked calmly towards the others. He firmly shouldered Nerist aside in mid-rant, ignoring the skinny mans indignant grunt. He smiled at the docker, a smile without a trace of humour in it.
“I had a really rough night last night” he said, his own bloodshot eyes meeting with the grey of the docker “Why don’t you just do what my associate here asks you, and keep this morning pleasant for all of us?”
The docker looked from Damien to Nerist and back again “Listen, friend” the docker filled that last word with scorn “I’m not giving my manifest to anyone without the authorisation of –“. He never had the chance to explain who’s authorisation he needed. Damien’s temper snapped. His hand flew out, slamming into the docker’s beefy chest, and knocking him back. The burly man had no chance to recover from his shock, as Damien stepped in close, seizing the lapels of the docker’s grey coveralls, and hoisting him off the floor, up against the wall. The docker was broader than Damien, but almost a hand shorter, and Damien lifted him with only a soft grunt of effort.
“You listen. I don’t care whose authority you need, or whose orders you’re ignoring. Throne! I don’t care if you have a decree from Earth itself” Damien ignored the docker’s startled gasp, which was echoed by Nerist at Damien’s back “You’re going to do what this Scribe asks, and you’re going to do it with a smile, or I’m going to force you through that window behind me. Ok?”
The docker swallowed hard, and nodded, almost before Damien had finished speaking. Damien smiled again, and dropped the man back to the floor plates “Good! See, isn’t it much nicer when we co-operate?” he said with a false cheerfulness that jarred against his previous aggression. Not waiting to see if the docker replied, Damien turned, his smile vanishing
“He’s all yours, Scribe Nerist” he said, passing by the indignant adjutant without stopping, or even sparing him a glance.
9:08am Local Time
Face down on the unmade bed, face buried in the thin, almost solid pillow, Damien dozed. It really had been a rough night, although nothing out of the ordinary for him really. Drinks in one of the local lower-Hive bars, drinks to drive away the all too familiar craving. Then after the drinks, the fighting. It didn’t seem to matter where he went, or what he drank, it always came down to the fighting. It didn’t matter whether it was looking at someone the wrong way, or not looking at someone the right way, not paying enough, or paying too much, sooner or later, you could guarantee that someone would want to fight him.
Of course, it had occurred to him that perhaps the fights happened so damned often because he wanted them to. In moments of honest introspection, he even admitted that in some cases that was true. But whether he wanted it or someone else did, it happened. The sorts of bars Damien frequented tended not to worry with Hive security to break up fights. They were the sorts where the fight would run its course, and the loser – and in some cases, the winner too – would wake up in some waste recycler, if they woke up at all. Unless of course the staff of that establishment didn’t want a fight right then, in which case it was common practice for shotguns and electro-clubs to appear.
Last night had involved someone – Damien couldn’t remember who – kicking off. The staff on this occasion had stepped in after ten minutes or so, electro-clubs swinging. His opponent went down in short order, his nervous system temporarily shut down by the shock from a club. Damien, even when drunk, was more than a match for some lower-Hive bouncer. He’d left the bar in a hurry after breaking at least to bones, and possibly killing one bouncer. The barman had produced an old combat shotgun from behind the stained and battered bar, and started blasting.
That hadn’t been the end of the night. It should have been, for any half-sane man, but Damien had given wondering about his sanity a long time ago. There was always another bar, and as far as they were concerned the closure or disruption of another bar could only increase their custom. His blood was up that night, and the drink just couldn’t quell the cravings, couldn’t calm the finger of need that seemed to claw their way out from his soul, burrowing into his mind… and the Crash made it all so much easier, so much clearer…
Damian tensed at a quiet bleep, close to his ear. It came from a small relay that was connected to a sensor discreetly hidden outside the door to his current dwelling. The bleep signalled that there was someone there, and since the door chime hadn’t sounded, they didn’t want him to know they were there. His hand slipped under the edge of the thin mattress (barely any thicker than the pillow) on his bed, and clasped around the hand of the Stubber pistol secreted there. Damien waited, ears strained for any sound from the door. There was a faint scraping noise, seemingly from outside the door, and then the hiss of the ill-maintained door sliding aside.
No sooner had the door begun to open than Damien was rolling from the bed, rolling up into a firing position on one knee with the Stubber aimed at the door, two paces from the bed. In the doorway, face painted with surprise stood a broad, dark-skinned man, clad in grey combat trousers and a drab olive vest. His hand was just moving to the holstered weapon at his hip by the time Damien had his head in his sights.
“Throne Gholien! You gonna shoot me?” asked the big man at the door in a deep voice that seemed to boom, a crooked grin partly erasing the surprise on his face. He knew Damien as Jado Gholien, as did everyone else on this planet “Don’t think the boss’d like that too much”
“What do you want Carell?” Was all Damien said, lowering the weapon, and rising to his feet. He tucked the Stubber into his belt, so as not to show the other man where he’d hidden the weapon.
“The boss wants to see you” said Carell “Of course, if you’re sleeping, I’ll just tell him you can’t make it” His sarcastic tone did nothing to improve Damien’s already foul mood, nor the headache he thought was coming. He did manage to suppress a curse though.
“Just take me to him” snarled Damien. Carrell laughed softly, clearly enjoying Damien’s annoyance, then stepped out into the hall to wait whilst Damien snatched up his Flak-jacket. Damien followed him shortly, the door closing behind him, and locking as Damien swiped his ID card through the archaic locking system “I’m not even gonna ask how you got in Carell, so don’t bother gloating. A five year old grox-herder could’ve gotten through that look, so stop looking so smug. It makes you look constipated”
The broader, dark skinned man grunted, and muttered something that was probably less than pleasant, and started away down the corridor.
Damien didn’t actually dislike the man in front of him. He may actually have liked him, had the situation been different. As it was, he just didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust anyone. It seemed as though that had been the state of affairs for his entire life. Carell was a little like himself, particularly right now. He was a ‘hired-gun’, working for the same employer as Damien, although from a different background. Damien had been able to find out that Carell was a former Imperial Guardsman, released from his previous duties for some undisclosed reason, and now selling his services to the highest bidder. It wasn’t unusual for former Guardsmen to turn to the life of a mercenary. There were enough people that would pay to have a big strong fellow with a gun on their side. Hive nobility, Crime Syndicates, entrepreneurs, even regular citizens with something worth looking after who had the credits to spare.
Age-old Human Nature dictated that wherever someone had something of value, someone else would want to take it. And in Hives like Sefus, ruled by a constantly power-hungry Nobility, someone always had something of value that someone else wanted. So mercenaries like Carell (and like himself, if he was honest) always had plenty of work. At the moment, Damien couldn’t see that he was being paid to protect anything, except a secret. It suited him – it meant no-one was trying to kill him outside of the usual drunken brawls – but it made him uneasy. Even when he didn’t use his real name, his general description seemed to find its way into the hands of those that wanted to know, and as such, his fee wasn’t small. He was good enough to ask it, and to have it paid, but no-one would willingly pay his price, simply to have him trawl through lists of incoming cargoes.
He was pretty sure the same was more or less applicable to Carell. Your average gunslinger would usually take whatever creds he could, but Guard-trained men could ask a much better price – not as much as Damien, but a fair price none the less. So why would anyone, even an Imperial Inquisitor, pay such prices to have two men following scribes into warehouses, a job that could’ve been done just as well by any two-cred gunslinger in any one of the lower-Hive bars? Maybe the Inquisitor was just a little eccentric, or had access to even more funds than usual, but the situation made him uncomfortable.
Damien followed the dark-skinned former Guardsman through seemingly endless grey corridors and passageways, and a into a handful of Travellers that clanked and rumbled as they lifted the two of them into the higher reaches of the Hive. As they ascended the levels of the Hive, the apparel and general appearance of those passing them in the corridors, and sharing the Traveller carriages with them changed slowly. At first, they were all pale-skinned men and women, clad in coveralls, coloured to correspond to their jobs, with a handful of offworlders – Traders and merchants whose fortunes weren’t so good, for the most part. – and a scattering of basic, heavy-built servitors. They saw to the tasks that kept the Hive running on a day to day basis. Receiving the supplies at the docks, recycling the refuse of several million people, repairing minor faults in the mechanical running of the Hives systems. They kept the hive alive. Had they descended any further into the depths of the Hive, or the UnderHive as it was known, then all they would have seen in the decaying, dim corridors would have been the scavs that scratched a living in the forgotten deeps below the Hive. Death stalked those corridors in a thousand guises. A hundred thousand. Even more that it did up here, in the ‘civilised’ areas.
The clothing and appearances changed. The coveralls were replaced here and there by plain robes, or trouser and jacket combinations in the same colours as before, but marking the wearer as an overseer or Scribe. Damian knew from previous experience that at the top levels, the corridors would be all but empty, except for the occasional scurrying servant, and the clothes would range from ornately embroidered, expansive swirling robes, to military dress uniforms, to the most fanciful decorations imaginable. It more often than not made the wearer look like a painted fool – in particular, those that had taken to having there skin artificially darkened with pigment-therapy, to an orange/bronze colour – but it was just as dangerous up there in the Heights as it was in the UnderHive. Maybe more so.
But Damien didn’t have to contend with such annoyance today. Due to the Inquisitors secrecy, he had taken rooms no more than half way to the pinnacle of the Hive. As Carell stopped outside the door leading to the Inquisitor’s rooms, a light crowd of robed and lightly embroidered people moved passed, silent except for the occasional whisper of psuedosilk. Few gave him and Carell distasteful looks – it was reasonably common at this level for employers to have their hired-guns come to them at home. Damien ignored those around him, trusting Carell to do his job, and touched a small, softly glowing rune beside the door. There was no signal that he could hear, but he knew that inside, a chime would sound, and vid-monitors would be watching him.
Moments later, the door hissed quietly aside, and Damien was greeted by a plump, robed man with heavy lidded eyes, and a shock of black hair. Without a word he gestured Damien into the room, and closed the door behind him. Damien waited, and the man walked past, gesturing him to follow. Around the room sat a handful of other adjutants, either working at terminals with there glowing screens facing away from Damien, or talking in small groups. Damien recognised most by sight, but could give only two names to match the faces. Also in the room was a short pale man, with a blank face, and cold, grey eyes. A long rifle stood beside him, propped against the wall, and Damien knew he was good with it. He was the third of the Inquisitors hired-guns, a sniper, who was a deserter from some far-off Planetary Defence Force. He thought his anonymity safe, but few secrets were safe from Damien.
The sniper nodded, and Damien acknowledged it with a nod of his own, moments before passing through another doorway, directly opposite to the first.
His guide stopped just inside the door, and Damien passed him, his eyes passing around the room, and suppressing a groan. The one large window in the room was opaqued against the glare of Teclis’ sun, so that it merely glowed pleasantly. Nerist was in the room, his face red with splotches of what Damien figured was irritation. The Inquisitor sat in a large, carved wooden chair just beside the window, turned half towards the window, and half towards Nerist. The adjutant’s head whipped ‘round as Damien entered, and directed a withering glare at him as he moved towards the centre of the room. A glare which Damien ignored with ease. He stopped in the middle of the room, and a little to Nerist’s left. He would approach no closer unless asked, but he was not some sycophantical adjutant, who would wait at the threshold until summoned.
Even seated, the Inquisitor made quite an imposing figure. He wore a tight-fitting coat of a blue so dark it was almost black, that flared into something like a robe at the waist. Dark boots, polished ‘til they shone rested on the floor, crossed at the ankle. Gloves of the same colour as the coat covered the Inquisitors hands, meaning that no flesh could be seen at all. His face…. Well, his face stretched the definition of the word. A hood of the same colour and material as that of coat and gloves covered where Damien assumed the Inquisitors hair was, and rested in folds on his broad shoulders, and where the mans face should have been was a tangled bio-mechanical mess. And opening near the bottom hung slackly open, metal glistening wetly within whenever the light shone that way. Above it, the nose was merely a meshed hole. The eyes were… disturbing, to say the least.
The left was a mechanical replacement, which protruded like a thick needle an inch or so out of the eye-socket, whilst the right was almost human in appearance – if human eyes were a ruddy orange colour, flecked with red, with an oval-shaped pupil. The flesh that clung over the steel of the rest of the face was either a sickly pink, or black and cracked, as if badly burned. It made most men avoid looking when possible. In fact, Damien mused, it seemed almost designed to make you feel uncomfortable.
“You sent for me, my Lord?” Asked Damien, keeping his eyes on the half of the Inquisitors face that he could see. The man seemed to gazing out of the window, and the shadows the glow of the sun cast on the metallic protuberances cast him in a stark relief.
“I did Jado” The Inquisitors voice was deep, even deeper than Carells, but that was where the similarities ended. It sounded like a bass human voice fed through a cognitor, then mangled by some crude mining vehicle. It was harsh, and seemed to rumble at the same time as it felt like nails on slate “Savant Nerist has reported your behaviour this morning with the dock worker” Now he turned his head to face Damien, bringing the full force of his stare to bear on him. “It was brash and bold, and could bring unwanted attention to my enquiries here”
Damien had known this was coming “My apologies Inquisitor. I acted in haste.”
What had to be called the Inquisitors cheeks twitched in what Damien though was a smile “Yet you have more to say, unless I am sorely mistaken” For a voice that was almost totally artificial, it expressed a surprising amount of emotion. Tired forbearance in this case.
“Yes my Lord. The Savant’s enquiries where getting nowhere. The docker was flatly refusing to co-operate with an officially sanctioned enquiry. I merely interceded where necessary to aid the enquiries. Is that not why you employed me?” Damien kept his disdain for Nerist and the stubborn docker from his voice.
A strange rumbling sound came from the Inquisitor, almost as if he was trying to dislodge something from his throat, his one biological eye closing. Damien wondered if the man was alright, when he noticed his shoulders shaking gently. He was laughing! He returned his gaze to Damien “You are indeed correct Jado. You are currently in my employ to solve any problems that more diplomatic courses cannot”. Nerist fidgeted, and Damien had to suppress a surprised stare. It was a measure of the adjutants annoyance that he would show it in such a way in the Inquisitor’s presence. The laughter had passed, and the Inquisitor turned his gaze to Nerist, who immediately stilled. The flesh above the one remaining eye twitched upwards, in an approximation of an eyebrow being raised. “You do not agree Adjutant Nerist?”
Nerist seemed torn for a moment, between respect for the Inquisitor, and the anger he clearly felt. His face practically glowed, it was so red “Inquisitor, with all the respect and praise due to yourself, this man threatened a dockworker, a man who may very well report to his superiors that we were asking questions, seemingly regardless for procedure or authority. This will surely bring recriminations and questions from the overseers, which I am sure you wish to avoid – “ Nerist cut off with a strangled grunt as the Inquisitor raised a glove finger. Nothing more, but Nerist paled as if he’d levelled a las-rifle at him.
“Would you presume to know my mind Savant?” The Inquisitors voice made it clear what folly this was. Nerist made a sound of pure fear in his throat, seemingly unable to speak “Do you think to know what I would and would not wish?” Nerist shook his head furiously, only managing to make a quiet groaning sound in his mouth. “As well you should not. Leave us, and think no more on this matter”.
Nerist bowed deeply, muttering an unintelligible prayer, and all but ran from the room. Damian kept the smirk from his face with ease this time. The Inquisitor was clearly not pleased, and only a fool willingly antagonised an Imperial Inquisitor. Even Damien was not that foolhardy. As Nerist departed, the Inquisitor turned back to the window again. Suddenly, he spoke again, without turning his head “Do you wonder why I continue to perform a task capable of being carried out by someone far below your abilities?”
The question caught Damien off guard. Why ask that question now, just minutes after he had been asking himself the same thing? Was it possible that this Inquisitor possessed some form of telepathy? Damien knew it was possible. He’d heard about it often enough, even worked with one such individual before. Of course, that had been under very different circumstances… He very firmly steered his thoughts away from that line of thought. If this Inquisitor could read his thoughts, then he’d have to take some further precautions from now on.
Again, the cheek twitched, and Damien knew that at least part of what he had thought had been understood by the deformed Inquisitor. But how much? Was it perhaps best to strike now, whilst the other was unarmed? It wasn’t his favoured way, but if his survival depended upon it, as he feared it did…
“That will be quite unnecessary. And quite impossible, I assure you, Jado Gholien” The Inquisitors cheek still twitched as he spoke “I believe you cannot even reach your weapons. Try, if you must. I know you will want to, now that I have told you that you cannot”. Damien frowned, and it quickly became a snarl. He couldn’t move his hands towards either of the holsters at his hips, nor the Stubber tucked behind his belt. He knew he wanted to, just to prove the man wrong, but even as the thought of moving his arms coalesced, they seemed to hit some kind of mental wall, and dissipate. “It is quite fruitless to continue to struggle, Jado. Now, please cease your attempts to take your weapons and listen”
The way the Inquisitor used his name – his assumed name – caught Damiens ear, and for the moment, he did cease his attempts to seize his weapons “You have my attention. What’s this all about?” His anger at the way he was being treated outweighed his feelings of trepidation, and his voice openly betrayed the fact. The Inquisitor turned to face him again, but it was impossible to read any trace of emotion on that mutilated face.
“We all have secrets, do we not?” Damien seemed to feel the weight of the mans gaze, pressing into his skull, searching for his secrets. He held resolute, refusing to avert his eyes. For some reason, the image of the Imperial Aquila drifted through his head. Battered, scarred, but still strong and unmoving. Well, why not? As good a symbol as any for his defiance of an Imperial Inquisitor. There came that strange gurgling laughter again, softer than before, then the Inquisitor continued. “But some secrets need to maintained, whilst others cause only unnecessary… tension”
Damien merely grunted. That sensation of the Inquisitors gaze pressing on him had intensified until it now felt as if there was a very real hand pressing down upon his head. But inside his head as well, as though it were compressing his thoughts, looking for a crack to appear…. Suddenly, the pressure was gone, so suddenly, that Damien grunted in surprise.
“I believe, that the time has come to reveal some truths to you, if not all” again, he turned to face the window, casting his face once again into half-darkness. “My name is Hidalgo Bericken. As you know, I am an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus. As I am sure you have gathered by now, I am here on Teclis looking for something. Do you, perhaps, have some idea as to what?”
Damien did. His previous training meant that he investigated things almost without realising it “Something that you are expecting to be delivered, or that you believe has been received recently. Something valuable enough to warrant being transported in its own container, despite the fact it’s small enough to be hand-held” The Inquisitors cheek twitched again, but before he could speak, Damien continued “It’s also something that the sender doesn’t want discovered by the wrong people. And they seem to believe that you will be the ‘wrong people’.”
The Inquisitor turned to face him “Well done master Gholien. I can see that my faith in your abilities was not misplaced. You are correct in your… deductions. It is an artefact, something which I have dedicated long years of my life to locating. Something that, should it fall in the wrong hands, could spell destruction not only for Teclis, but this entire system. Indeed, the whole Segmentum could well be threatened.” He paused for a moment, studying Damien, as if waiting to see how the gravity of the situation affected him. Damien remained unmoved – in his experience, every Inquisitor thought that their current case was vital to the survival of at least the sub-sector. With a soft gurgle-laugh Bericken continued.
“The item in question is fashioned as a collar, carved with inscriptions in an ancient dialect that I shan’t bore you with. Suffice to say that it is heretical in nature, and intrinsically linked to the Ruinous Powers” That did get Damiens attention. He folded his arms across his chest, and shifted his position slightly. Bericken noticed “The thought of facing heretics and agents of the Dark Gods unnerves you Jado?”
Damien shook his head “No. It’s just a little more than I’d expected, that’s all” he lied. He hated heretics. The very thought of them angered him, and had resulted in stern disciplinary actions being taken against during his days as an Arbites officer. Heretics angered him in a very fatal way. Bericken cocked his head slightly to the side, studying Damien for a moment in silence before continuing.
“Well, whatever you expected, this is what we face. This artefact is highly coveted by those in league with the Eye. It’s power is terrible, and should our enemies secure it… well, it would become very unpleasant for us, and any others loyal to the Emperor.” Bericken rose from his seat, and crossed the room to a carved wooden sideboard atop which rested a crystal decanter and half a dozen lead crystal glasses. He poured two measures of amasec, and turned, handing one to Damien before he continued “This object is known as the Zenethene Collar”.
The deformed Inquisitor took a sip of the liquor, and watched Damien over the rim of his glass. If he’s waiting for a reaction, he’s in for a disappointment. “Never heard of it” Damien replied, before taking a sip of his own drink. And he wasn’t lying. Being a former member of the Arbites he knew by reputation or investigation of a number of heretical practices and implements – most recovered or discovered after the cultists using them were dead – but it wasn’t a life that exposed you to ancient an terrible devices of arcane power.
If Bericken was annoyed by this, he gave no sign. Not that I could tell from that speeder-wreck of a face, thought Damien, making no effort to hide his thoughts. He realised his error a moment too late. Bericken lowered his glass. “Jado, please. There’s no need to get personal” he chided. Damien almost blushed.
“My apologies Inquisitor. I meant no offence” he blurted, but Bericken waved his apology away.
“Think nothing of it. I know what I look like Jado. You’re right – I am a bit of a speeder-wreck” He took another sip of the amasec, and Damien gulped down a mouthful, in case he said anything else stupid. “Anyway, the matter of the Zenethene Collar – if you ask before you leave, one of my Savants will provide you with information on it, and some background of my search for it – the Collar is named after the heretic Beran Zenethene who is the first known ‘user’ of it, sometime in M.25. It is quite singular, in that it can grant even non-psykers the abilities of an Alpha-plus” Bericken crossed back to his chair, and sat. Damien remained where he was, since at present there were no other chairs in the room. “As you can imagine, this makes it a very potent threat, with the possibility of turning anyone into a Warp-crazed killer, with the psionic ability to enslave an entire Hive with a mere thought”
Damien drained the last of his liquor, focusing on the burn of the amasec as it traced it’s way to his stomach, rather than think too long about the damage something like that could do. In anyone’s hands. “I take it from the way you mention him that Beran Zenethene is no longer with us?” he asked, returning his glass to the sideboard.
“You are correct. The Ordo Malleus finally rid the galaxy of his corruption some two hundred years after he first came to prominence. But not before he cut a bloody swathe across a dozen worlds, and founded – in one way or another – double that many cults devoted to his worship, or that of the Collar itself.”
Damien folded his arms again, and leaned back against the carved edge of the sideboard “So why wasn’t the Collar destroyed then?”. Bericken shifted slightly before replying.
“Regrettably, the Collar has means of preserving itself. One of the Inquisitors present at Zenethene’s eventual death spirited away the Collar from the heretics burned body. It appears that the Collar itself is possessed by some daemon of great power. It whispered into the mind of that Inquisitor – a Nayl Demoas – telling him of the secrets the Inquisition could learn from studying the Collar. It was in Demoas’ care for less than a year before his Interrogator donned it, and slaughtered his master” Bericken swirled the last of his amasec in the glass “Since then, the Inquisition has chased rumours of it’s re-appearance all across known space. As yet, no local Inquisitor has laid hands upon it” He drained the glass of it’s contents, and looked up at Damien.
“So, this Collar has a daemon living inside it, can turn anyone into a grade-A Psyker killing machine, and has been known to corrupt the agents of the Inquisition?” asked Damien, his tone deadpan”
“That is correct” replied Bericken, again studying Damien in that slightly cocked manner.
“Best we keep you away from it then” quipped Damien with a smile.
***
